


And Whitley Makes Three

by Tazii



Category: RWBY
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Biphobia, Bisexual Winter Schnee, Child Abuse, Closeted Character, Coming Out, Domestic Violence, Figure Skater Whitley Schnee, Fluff and Angst, Gardener/Florist Oscar Pine, Happy Ending, Homophobia, Homosexual Whitley Schnee, Ice Skating, Implied Bumbleby Renora and Arkos, Implied Fair Game now too bc v7 really did that to me huh?, Jacques Schnee's Terrible Parenting Skills, Klein Sieben's Amazing Parenting Skills, Lesbian Weiss Schnee, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-03
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-06-03 09:47:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,152
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19461457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tazii/pseuds/Tazii
Summary: ’I’m gay!’Imagine that? Declaring it so loudly, like it was something to be proud of. Admitting it in front of their father in the midst of his rant on sexualities.Truth be told, Whitley wasn’t all that surprised by the news. It was the act that left him awe struck.Weiss was sixteen at the time. What did she expect? What had been her plan? Couldn’t she see that following Winter only ended in tragedy?--Closeted and striving down the road his father has set ahead of him, Whitley Schnee is desperate to keep his father's favour. He refuses to follow in his sisters' mistakes.Like every other tragedy in his life, it all starts with a misplaced emotion.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Imma be honest, I really just wanted to get this started before volume 7 comes along and potentially messes up every single headcanon I have. Volume 7, I ask, please be kind to Whitley. 
> 
> I don't know if I'll be able to finish this entirely before the new volume, but DAMN if I'm not going to try! Because it will probably ruin this character for me and sink my ship but, hey, I can hope, right?
> 
> Despite all the homophobia/biphobia and abuse and just general fuck up that is the Schnee family, I swear this will have a happy ending. Along with plenty of fluff along the way to cushion the pain.
> 
> Please enjoy!

Once upon a time, the Schnee family almost passed as _normal_.

A normal nuclear family with the average 2.5 children. A part of a normal statistic.

An average family, with a mother and father who sat on opposite ends of a long table with three children seated between them, and a butler to serve them all.

Quiet conversations and prying questions, digging into the eldest’s day.

Whitley didn’t remember those days.

He’s told they existed, though it’s hard for him to believe.

What he is told though is that is stared like every disaster did; when someone couldn’t keep up a façade.

Whitley was far too young to remember details past what he _felt_.

Fear. It’s one of his earliest memories. Voices raising, shattering the calm of the table.

If Whitley tries to think back on it, he can remember the screaming. The pain in his throat and the hot prick of tears. Too young to understand why his mother and father were screaming. Why Weiss cried silently beside him, staring down at a cake, brilliantly decorated with white and blue icing.

Whitley can’t remember details past that. All he knows is that it was apparently the last dinner his mother spent with them.

He remembers the second fight though.

Whitley was ten when Winter came out. The details may have been muddled with time, but he can still remember his father’s rage.

Whitley had always been a bright child. Home-schooled as he was, his education was rather limited to what his father deemed acceptable. Eager to learn, Whitley didn’t stop there.

While he wouldn’t quite put it that way, Whitley had been _desperate_ for attention.

Mother was always lost in the gardens.  
Father was fixated on Winter.

He and Weiss struggled for that same attention. They excelled remarkably, though the shadow of Winter was large and chilling. The pedestal Jacques put her on was far out of either of their reach.

Naturally, Whitley had to work harder. Had to teach himself.

He read, and watched. Learned about the world outside of their closed off mansion to feed his need for validation.

So when Winter stood up in the midst of a fight on her eighteenth birthday, proud and towering as she was, Whitley understood the implications when she announced herself _’bisexual’_.

It was a word he didn’t expect to hear in these walls.

While Whitley learned of the world outside on a television screen, that was all it was. _Television_.

It was far from them. It had no sway, no appliance to the world he existed in. It was jarring to realise that wasn’t the case.

Silent and observant, he watched the way his father’s face changed in colours as Winter walked out.

When Winter abandoned them all.

Perhaps Whitley’s resentment started once Jacques put her so high. That, even at a young age, he was pitted against his sibling for a sliver or attention. In the end, he could not blame Winter for that.

Walking out, however, left him bitter.

Jacques did not take it well at all and, for the first time, Whitley was aware of how the world changed around him. How much tighter he was watched. How he and Weiss were pushed to strive.

Things became stricter at home. Less people came in and out of the halls. Mother rarely strayed from the garden. Whitley was no longer allowed to watch the television and learn for himself. Books had to go by Jacques.

_Contact with Winter was strictly regulated._

After their sister, Weiss and Whitley were her replacement.

All her trophies remained in her once bedroom, marking an empty childhood.

As her replacement, Weiss and Whitley were pushed to learn her sport.

Taking to skating was like a duck to water. Lessons were strict with Jacques holding their leashes tight, but striving on the ice gave Whitley a sense of pride.

Jacques was breathing down their necks, but at least they had his _attention_.

It was just a shame that he was so fixated on _Weiss_.

The moment Winter left, Weiss was Jacques’ centre of attention. The new totem child to cast a shadow over Whitley.

Still, Whitley worked. He pushed himself harder on the ice than any other. For years, he placed over and over in every tournament. Made a name for himself only ever unmined by Weiss herself.

Media oftentimes would bring up the star child. Question where Winter was, and if she would return to the ice.

Whitley ignored each question.

With time grew a new normality.

A simple table of three, with Jacques at the head, and a child at each side. It was distant, but _normal_.

At least it was until Weiss had to follow suit.

As wise of a man Jacques was, Whitley had learned by the age of fourteen that his father was _emotional_. It was his major flaw, and something to be constantly weary of. 

News had gotten home that Winter had joined the military, working for a man Jacques had a strained ‘friendship’ with, if he could call it that.

It was his birthday at the time, and Whitley was perfectly aware that it was a growing pattern. The entire time he’d ranted, belittling Winter and prattled on about how much of a _disappointment_ she’d become, Whitley had stared at his cake in the centre of the table.

It was an outburst he was use to hearing. One he was sure he’d hear again and again. He’d long lost the sense to care. In that moment, as he’d harped on and on about her sexuality, all Whitley could think about was that he hoped they managed to have cake tonight.

It was best to sit silent and accept it. Let him rant on. It would be over if they just kept quiet. 

He didn’t know why Weiss couldn’t simply _understand that_.

The scrape of a chair had surprised him. He was curious and shocked when Weiss had stood from her chair so suddenly.

It was a stupid move, and Whitley could only remain still and silent as it all unfolded in front of him.

_’I’m gay!’_

Imagine that? Declaring it so loudly, like it was something to be proud of. Admitting it in front of their father in the midst of his rant on sexualities. 

Truth be told, Whitley wasn’t all that surprised by the news. It was the act that left him awe struck.

She was sixteen at the time. What did she expect? What had been her plan? Couldn’t she see that following Winter only ended in tragedy?

Whitley sat, watching in morbid shock as Jacques stood too.

There was screaming. Snarls and accusations as the birthday was torn to ruins.

Weiss’ declare that she had a girlfriend had been the nail in the coffin.

Jacques’ emotions was his weakness, but they were also what left him so horrifically terrifying. Before that day, Whitley hadn’t seen his father get _violent_.

He screamed. He berated. He made people suffer through verbal prowess. Still, he never lashed out with _violence_.

Until that day, of course.

He still remembers the shock of watching Jacques slap Weiss.

It had been loud and clear, echoing in the empty halls.

He saw Weiss reel back in shock.

Saw Klein tense in the corner, silently radiating with _rage_.

Watched his father straighten up his tie and attempt to contain his emotions.

It was at that point Whitley realised how terrifying emotions were. The pure rage suffocating the room as Weiss stormed to her room. When Jacques seethed, muttering about the purity of the family.

For a brief moment their eyes met, and Whitley struggled not to wither in his seat.

He knew what it meant from then on.

He was the new favourite child placed upon the impossible pedestal and, for once, the idea of having his father’s attention was frightening.

Jacques retreated to his study. Klein sought out Weiss to comfort.

Whitley simply stared at the untouched cake, lost in his own thoughts.

That night he’d heard Weiss creep down the halls, along with a heavier set of footsteps he recognised as Klein’s.

Just like Whitley assumed, Weiss wasn’t there in the morning.

With that, Whitley was the last man standing. Jacques’ last masterpiece, moulded and led by his father.

All the pictures of his sister were replaced with his own. Multiple pictures of a tight lipped smile.

Emotionless.

_Hollow._

Emotions only brought tragedy. Only tore the family apart. 

Unlike his sisters and mother, Whitley figured out quickly that it was better to play his part in the façade.

It was safer that way.

That was why, for four birthdays, they never had another family shattering argument.

Never had dinners together either, but those long lost their appeal. After all, there was no one left to share them with.

The leash bound to Whitley’s throat was impossibly tight. Constricting and controlling. In an odd sense, it was _comforting_.

If his binds left him with no room to move, then he could not repeat his sisters’ mistakes.

It was a simple lesson neither Winter nor Weiss seemed to understand: _It’s foolish not to do as father asks._

\--

_”Whitley.”_

That was essentially Whitley’s entire existence.

Come when called. Do as he says. Don’t set foot out of line. Don’t cause a ruckus, and the world would be his.

Jacques had his imperfections in the form of thinly-veiled rage and the capability of acting on in. Simply put, that was exactly _why_ it was best not to question the man.

Imperfections aside, the Schnee name only _thrived_ under his control. Mother had been a star on the ice, but stars, with time, withered and burned out. She was not untouched by age. Her trophies eventually would collect dust. Her given fortune would waste away if it hadn’t been for her husband.

With Jacques’ influence, he raised three brighter stars. Three additions to carry the Schnee name with pride. It was a shame two of them had fallen in such a spectacular fashion.

The facts were simple; Jacques’ methods were productive and he demanded results. A path was laid out for them to succeed. His sisters were too foolish to follow simple rules.

It wasn’t so hard, Whitley thought, to pretend to be something you’re not. Even a child could do so much. It wasn’t as if any of them needed something as small minded as _love_ to succeed. After all, their parents certainly didn’t _need_ it.

Ignore the urges. Bite your tongue. Stand up straight.

“Whitley!”

_Come when called._

“Yes, father?”

Coming to stand in the doorway of his father’s study, Whitley folded his hands behind his back, face passive and neutral.

For a fleeting moment he saw that etch of anger. The impatience and annoyance that he so desperately tried to _avoid_. It was a relief to watch it ease away from the man’s face.

“Come here,” Jacques waved him over, picking up an envelope from his desk before holding it out. “Take this letter to your mother.”

“Me, father?” Despite the uncertainty of the question, Whitley took the offered envelope, turning it curiously between his fingers.

It was unmarked. _Impersonal_. A simple sealed envelope, thin enough that Whitley was sure simply contained a note.

“Yes, _you,_ ” Jacques stressed, flicking his wrist in a dismissive manner. “Klein is _’busy’_ ,” he mocked childishly despite the fact Klein was likely gone for something _Jacques_ told him to do.

Whitley, of course, didn’t vocalise that thought.

He simply folded his hands behind his back again, the envelope kept snug between his pointer and middle finger.

“Of course, father,” Whitley chirped, turning on a dime and marched outside the room.

He took time to pause outside, closing the door after himself, before the crisp smile on his face vanished.

Bringing his hands in front of himself, Whitley strolled down the empty halls with the envelope in his hands. He frowned down at the offending object, head tilting just _barely_ in curiosity.

Under the layer of paper he could just barely make out scribbles of hand-written letters. Unfortunately not _nearly_ clear enough to read, and Whitley quickly gave up.

The walk to mother’s garden was admittedly _unfamiliar_. It was not a place he liked to visit and the very thought of setting a foot inside left Whitley sour.

It was best not to question his father. Even so, Whitley couldn’t help but inwardly _bitch_. This couldn’t have waited until Klein was done? Or until mother had left the comfort of her isolation?

That thought earned a silent laugh, the spot of humour nursing his bruised ego. If he waited that long she might never receive it.

Pushing open the tall doors leading into his mother’s enclosed garden, Whitley slipped inside, nose scrunched as he was assaulted with pollen and bold aromas. He wasn’t sure how that woman stood it.

Whitley’s shoes clicked on polished floors, a pavement split down the centre with paths branching out, leading through the massive room.

The garden was bathed in light, the windows above clear and filtering in the natural sunlight. 

It was the warmest room in the entire Schnee estate, and also the most humid, and Whitley hated the fact he could feel a sweat to his brow.

It was _winter_ for Gods’ sake! Why did he have to sweat in an Atlas winter of all things.

Clutching the envelope in one hand, his other reached for his collar, dipping a finger underneath and pulling enough to relieve the building warmth. Heat and humidity was awful, and he just wanted to find his mother and leave.

Whitley moved in long strides, marching down the marked path towards the centre. _In and out_ was all he wanted.

He hated this place. Hated her plants. Hated how they blocked his nose. How bright and vibrant and _loved_ the flowers looked.

It was petty, perhaps, but he hated each and every single one. The large blooms and healthy greens. So clearly well looked after and admired. 

She loved them, clearly. Took remarkable care of them.

How funny, he thought, that she was _capable_ of taking care of _something_.

Frustratingly, mother was not in the centre of the garden like he expected.

In the dead centre was her usual resting place, marked out with an array of empty wine bottles Klein had yet to take care of. A simple table and a couple of chairs. Why she needed more than one was beyond him. No one visited her, and it wasn’t like she wanted company.

Perhaps it was simply custom to provide more than necessary to play the part of _’normal’_ , like the empty chairs unmoved lining the dining room table.

It was unnecessary and Whitley didn’t bother to question the logic. No point in making sense in a senseless act.

Whitley simply picked up an empty bottle, set the letter on the table, and pinned it down under the glass.

Job accomplished. Now he could leave this awful place and its unwanted reminders.

Turning on his heels, Whitley tried not to observe the world around him. The flowers, they brought back awful thoughts. Awful emotions. And emotions were always the beginning of downfalls.

So, head held high, Whitley folded his hands behind his back and marched down the path to freedom. 

He should have kept walking, really. Acting out on irrational thoughts was the tipping point of each foolish action. It would have been smarter to leave. To shut this place out of his mind and continue without a care. Without any focus of this damn place, or the feelings it dredged up.

Ultimately, even Whitley wasn’t immune to irrational actions and thoughts.

It was the flower that started it all. What he would pin the blame on.

It was so out of place; a bright shade of orange on the otherwise white path. It had drooped over, incapable of supporting its own weight and withering pathetically against tile.

Simply put, it didn’t belong. The white of tile was untarnished. Stark and perfect. The dying flower only served to mar its image.

Whitley had stopped to regard it, the echo of footsteps dying.

Face passive, unfeeling, Whitley raised one foot. He pressed his heel just before the pant, shadowing the dying flower under the sole of his foot, before he started to press down.

“Wait, stop!”

In his defence, Whitley had thought he was alone.

Jerked out of his action, Whitley stumbled back, eyes wide as he looked into the garden.

A boy stumbled out from between hanging plants, two-toned coloured eyes flicking down to the plant in panic then back to Whitley himself. His face was dusted with mud, hair unruly with an odd leaf ensnared, and gloves heavily coated with dirt.

Like the flower, he was an unsightly addition to an otherwise perfect garden.

“Please,” the other started, raising his hands in a plea, “be careful.”

“It’s dying,” Whitley answered back, voice low in thought. 

“I’m moving it. The conditions are… a little too harsh for it there. I’m- going to move it somewhere it can thrive. Please don’t step on it.”

Scoffing, Whitley turned his head away, looking _bored_ at the thought. His eyes lingered on the pitiful plant, brows knitted before he glanced away fully.

“Why would _I_ go out of my way to tread on a _plant?_ ” Unfolding his arms from behind his back, Whitley spread them out in a flamboyant shrug, watching the other from the corner of his eye. “Accidents happen, you know?”

The stranger’s face shifted, brows knitted as he stared at Whitley in clear disbelief. “Right.. _accidents_.”

“Much more importantly, who are _you?_ ” Whitley stressed, turning to face the other properly this time. His hands moved to their natural place, folded perfectly and hidden behind his back. Shoulders squared, chin raised, eyes focused. He radiated importance, just like how it had been drilled into his head.

The stranger wasn’t nearly as elegant, dirty hands hanging limp at his side. While Whitley’s ankles were pressed together, poised and proper, the boy’s were parted. He seemed to lean against one over the other, leaving him off center and asymmetrical.

His hair was messy and hang heavy with humidity, just shy of his rather curious eyes. They were interesting, really, though they only added to the chaos of imperfection. An odd mix of orange, green, and hazel.

The boy seemed uncomfortable under Whitley’s stare.

“Right! Uh, sorry. I’m Oscar.” _Oscar_ took a moment to slide off one glove, holding out his hand for Whitley to take.

Whitley didn’t even so much as glance down, hands locked in place behind his back. He could see Oscar’s certainty wither and die. 

His hand dropped awkwardly, handing at his side as his eyes flitted away, incapable of holding eye contact. He was sweating, but who could blame him? The humidity really was awful.

“You’re the gardener?” Whitley pressed, brow raised in question. He didn’t really need an answer. If this _Oscar_ broke in, he was an awful thief. There was nothing of value in this awful place.

“Y-yeah, right! That. I’m just.. here for a couple months. Picking up an odd job here and there..” Oscar trailed off, odd eyes peeking up from under his lashes as it became increasingly clear that Whitley didn’t _care_.

“I should.. get back to it,” he offered, taking a step back and knocking his shoulder against the trunk of a small tree.

He seemed unsure, eyes flicking towards Whitley’s face before falling miserably under the stare.

There was a moment of heavy silence, deafening and awful, and Whitley quickly found himself tired of watching the gardener make a fool of himself.

Raising a hand, he dismissively waved Oscar off. “Go on then.”

 _”Right,"_ Oscar stressed, pursing his lips before stiffly turning and storming back into the gardens, shoulders tense.

As Whitley watched the young man disappear into the foliage, he could hear the quiet rant of _’stupid’_ follow his retreating form.

In the end, Whitley wasn’t surprised. It came to no shock that his mother couldn’t even manage to take care of the plants either. Why had he expected so much from her?

Huffing through his nose quietly, Whitley turned and retreated the way he came, taking care not to tread on the flower on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whitley's pretty critical of his mother, huh? I promise when I say there's a happy ending, I mean it for everyone. Well.. except for Jacques. Hey, I'm bias~
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and reading!! And an extra thank you to any kudos or comments!!
> 
> If you want to catch me on tumblr you can find me [here](https://taziidcvil.tumblr.com/)


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This… isn’t _normal_. You have to know that, right? This isn’t how families work.”
> 
> Weiss was looking up at him again as if she _expected_ something of him. As if her words were supposed to spark some epiphany. 
> 
> Whitley just sipped at his mocha, humming in delight at the sweet sensation. While Weiss looked stressed, Whitley looked completely unbothered.
> 
> “We’re _Schnees_ ,” he answered, as if that alone crushed her entire concern. “Of course we aren’t ‘normal’.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Lets _gooooo_ chapter two! 
> 
> While chapter 1 was more setting up and exploring Whitley's mindset, this one is more story driven and touching on his relationships with others. Namely Weiss.
> 
> I hope you enjoy!!

Whitley was always most at peace on the ice.

It was comfortable and empowering. He knew what to do, and knew how to do it better than most others. There was beauty in motion. An art to skating far more advanced than any other form, or at the very least Whitley believed so.

The rink was empty, a delicate melody playing sweetly over the audio system and filling the air with his harmony. It was a recording of his own piano skills, of course. It calmed him. Lulled him into fluid motions and charming leaps. 

It was almost a shame that no one got to see him, minus the rather bored looking desk worker, though she hardly counted. That was the point of hiring the entire rink for the afternoon though. That and the space. He couldn’t exactly practice his leaps and rotations with a rink filled with sub-par skaters. 

Whitley landed with practised elegance, lithe body bending in a tremendous dance. One no one would be able to appreciate until it was _perfect_. Until _he_ was _perfect_.

The ice chipped away under his blades, the chill of the air nipping at his skin as his heart raced with adrenaline. 

Whitley spun in rapid succession, his flawless hair shifting and ruffling with his motions. It was thrilling and _freeing_ , and it made it all that much easier to ignore the constant buzzing coming from the sidelines. 

He continued in this fashion, prancing across the ice with delicate skill. He pushed himself that little bit harder. Tried for those more difficult jumps.

There was room for improvement. _There always was_. 

He tried again, leaping from the ice in a brilliant spin.

He’d been midair when his music cut out and a jarring voice broke out over the speaker system.

_”Time’s up.”_

Landing hard, Whitley’s knees bent to absorb the awkward landing, crystal blue eyes narrowing towards the front desk. 

The lady at the counter looked downright _pleased_ with herself; elbows propped on the surface and body bent forward so she could cradle her chin between her interwoven fingers. Her smile was _cruel_ , like a cheshire’s grin.

Was it two hours already? It had all passed in such a blur. It wasn’t until Whitley was forced to stop that he realized how heavy he was breathing.

Brushing his pants off of non-existent dust, Whitley made his way to the edge of the rink, skating to the gate before stepping off.

He guided himself to his seat next to his belongings before working on undoing his skates, all the while still ignoring the persistent buzzing. 

There was only so long he could ignore it though.

Slipping on the blades’ covers, he tied the laces together and set them over his shoulder before gathering his things and slipping on his shoes.

His phone was the last thing to check.

_10 missed calls._  
_23 messages._

Honestly, Weiss was so _dramatic_.

Tapping in his passcode, he ignored the barrage of notifications from his sister calling him _late_ to send a message of his own.

_Whitley - So sorry. The time just got away from me. Won't be long~_

Three little dots popped up instantly, indicating that Weiss was typing back. Of _course_ she was just sitting on her phone waiting for him to answer.

_Weiss - Just hurry up._

Clicking his tongue, Whitley flicked his phone off and slipped it back into his bag. Swinging it over his free shoulder, Whitley strolled past the front desk, trading glances with the vibrantly dressed worker.

Bright dyed orange hair was pulled into two childish piggytails, adding to the rather immature and unprofessional vibe she put off. _That_ he could deal with. It was the assortment of rainbow themed tattoos and ‘pride’ pins that forced Whitley to divert his eyes.

They never spoke past hiring the rink, and Whitley liked to keep it that way.

As he exited Funki Ice he heard his music rip to a stop, quickly replaced with fast paced jazz before the door even swung shut.

\--

“Why even suggest we meet for lunch if you’re going to be over an _hour late_ , Whitley?”

That was unfortunately the very first thing Whitley was met with once he stepped inside the quaint cafe. 

He’d barely dusted the snow from his boots before Weiss was on him, standing up from a small two-seater table to chastise him.

Whitley paused, wide and faux-innocent eyes blinking as his head rocked to the side.

“I’m sorry, sister,” Whitley lied, his right hand raising to press over his heart. “I was just caught up in something important.”

He didn’t explain further. Didn’t _need to_. Weiss could see the skates hanging off his shoulder perfectly clear.

Weiss knew he was lying, and Whitley couldn’t care less. 

These little meet-ups were often-times tense and ended with passive aggressive arguments. Neither of them wanted to be seen bickering like children in public. 

If he wanted the uncomfortable air, he’d simply stay home.

“Well _I’ve_ already eaten,” Weiss huffed, _trying_ to curb her frustrations. Arguing would get them nowhere.

“That’s fine,” Whitley brushed off, setting his things down before strolling towards the counter. Much to his annoyance, Weiss followed. “I had a big breakfast. Klein made croissants.”

His voice raised with the words in a light sing-song, brightening up at the memory of the sweet treats. They’d been nice and airy, stuffed with cheesy scrambled eggs. 

Weiss faltered beside him and, for a moment, Whitley assumed Weiss was _jealous_. How could she not be? With the way she was living now, he doubted she had any butlers or chef’s to bake for her. 

“How _is_ Klein doing?”

 _Ah._ Of course. How could he forget her attachment to the man?

“You haven’t seen him since he smuggled you out of home, have you?”

“He didn’t _smuggle me_ ,” Weiss denied, tensing up as Whitley blatantly ignored her to order a drink. “He had nothing to do with me leaving.”

Now it was her turn to blatantly lie. Whitley simply glanced sidelong at her, raising a less than impressed eyebrow at the way her voice pitched up at the end. She was always an awful liar.

“Of course not,” Whitley humoured her, reaching for his jacket pocket to pay. 

Weiss cut him off, shoving in front to add an order of her own before flashing her card to pay for them both.

Whitley froze up, watching her actions in a daze. In all the times they had their little _chit-chats_ , Weiss never paid for him. He never expected her to either. She was cut off from father’s money, and he was not. He wasn’t even quite sure how she managed to support herself at all.

“I’m paying,” Weiss declared stubbornly, and Whitley only stepped aside to allow her.

“I can see that,” Whitley drawled, his voice raising with an unspoken question. 

It rubbed him wrong that she would act unlike herself. She didn’t do things for him because she was _nice_. None of them ever had. 

It meant something was different and Whitley didn’t like what that implied. Weiss was so frantic to get him here today and now the question was simply _why?_

Whitley swallowed down his own unease, settling to the side as they waited for their orders.

“If you’re worried about me telling father about Klein’s involvement with your departure, don’t be. No one else makes sweets quite like Klein.”

“Oh and _what_ , the fact that he practically raised us doesn’t factor in?”

“He was paid for that.”

“He was paid to be our _butler_ , not our father,” Weiss hissed, trying and failing to keep her temper quiet. 

The barista glanced up between them, and Whitley offered a tight-lipped smile back. He waited until they looked away before answering; calm, quiet, and far more subdued than his emotional sister.

“Klein is _fine_ , seeing as you’re so insistent. You should know though. He calls you often enough.”

“God, _Whitley_ , can’t you ever just _not_ eavesdrop like a creep?”

“If he wants to have private conversations without being overheard, then I’d suggest he doesn’t do them in a silent home prone to echoes. It’s stupidity, like wearing heels on hard floors while trying to sneak out in the middle of the night.”

Weiss opened her mouth to argue, clearly insulted by Whitley’s comments, but two mugs sliding towards them with the call of ‘Schnee’ forced her to bite her tongue.

Whitley took his drink silently as Weiss thanked the barista, the aforementioned _heels_ clicking loudly as she followed him back to his seat.

“I don’t know whether to be grateful you minded your own business that night, or _angry_ that you didn’t care.”

“Honestly, sister, it simply meant all the leftover cake was left solely for _me._ ”

A blatant lie, though that had certainly been a perk in itself. Weiss wouldn’t believe that. That was fine. He didn’t say it to be believed, but to brush off the implied importance between them.

Home would be _easier_ without Weiss around, plain and simple. Like Whitley expected, he was correct.

No more arguments. No more competition. The fortune would be handed down solely to Whitley, and everyone was able to _breathe_ without the tension between Weiss and their father suffocating them all.

Weiss wanted to leave. Why bother trying to stop her? Whitley wasn’t going to stop her from making her mistakes.

They both sat down and Whitley tried to ignore the way his knees bumped against the bottom of the table. Why Weiss had picked such a… _common_ cafe was beyond him, though his white chocolate mocha smelt heavenly. Two sugars too. Nice and light and _sweet_.

Across from him Weiss nursed her plain white coffee between two hands. _Sugarless_. He could never understand how she could enjoy something so bitter.

Weiss only stared down at the table between them, brows furrowed and clearly disturbed by _something_. Whatever it was, it had to be heavy on her mind to ignore his poorly hidden insults.

Whitley didn’t care. Didn’t want to know. He came here to chat, possibly argue, then go their separate ways so he could pat himself on the back for indulging her. Maybe keep tabs, because information never hurt.

Whatever was bothering Weiss, Whitley preferred not to be dragged into it.

That didn’t mean Weiss would spare him.

“This… isn’t _normal_. You have to know that, right? This isn’t how families work.”

Weiss was looking up at him again as if she _expected_ something of him. As if her words were supposed to spark some epiphany. 

Whitley just sipped at his mocha, humming in delight at the sweet sensation. While Weiss looked stressed, Whitley looked completely unbothered.

“We’re _Schnees_ ,” he answered, as if that alone crushed her entire concern. “Of course we aren’t ‘normal’.”

Weiss’ fingers tightened around her mug though, to her credit, the look on her face didn’t shift. It was probably the answer she expected. After all, it was the answer she’d used to justify it for years herself.

But-

“After I left,” Weiss started, and Whitley fought the urge to roll his eyes. _Of course_ she was settling them in for a heart-to-heart. “I stayed with Ruby and her… _family_.”

 _Ruby_. He’d heard the name plenty of times at that point, though he always tried to brush it off. Change the subject to something more pleasant. Less… _problematic_. Obviously Weiss was hellbent on pushing this agenda forward.

“They have their own problems too, of course, but they actually _care_ about each other.”

Whitley’s bottom lip pressed against the ceramics of his mug, his pout hidden as he frowned across to his sentimental sister. Such a lovely light drink, and she was ruining it with all this _family_ talk. 

“I love Winter,” Weiss continued, her eyes wandering down to the ground as she pushed on. Though he didn’t remark on it, he was perfectly aware she didn’t offer the same affection to him. “But… Ruby and her sister are so close. They’d do anything for each other and honestly sometimes I get _jealous_.”

Weiss had spent far too long outside the Schnee estate. The longer she spent parted with her family, the more expressive she became. The easier to read.

She looked far more open as her eyes wandered. As an array of emotions played with each word, broadcast for the world.

The Weiss he knew was capable of anger and spouts of rage, but she had been quiet. Controlled and careful. _More like him_. It was almost jarring seeing her act so different from the girl he’d grown up with.

Whitley slowly lowered his mug, clinking it against the saucer as he watched her ramble on. The drink no longer tasted sweet.

“And their father. He’s so… _loving_ and accepting. He’s nothing like ours. He’s more like-”

“Grandfather,” Whitley cut her off, folding his hands against the table. Weiss jolted at being called out, wide and caught eyes landing on her brother.

Truth be told, Whitley didn’t remember much of the man. He was far too young to retain the memories in detail. Weiss, however, was just old enough to think back on them fondly. To reminisce in a past shared with a dead man.

He remembered times in their childhood, when Whitley was too young to know better, when he’d listen to her talk about him in curiosity. Her and Winter, though she had always spoke more in _facts_ than emotions. Weiss was different though, and Whitley knew she never quite got over his death. 

Around that time had been when the arguments started to rise, and then Winter left. After that, Weiss stopped talking so openly about their grandfather. Stopped wearing touches of red in homage to the man. That was the last he’d heard of the man, though he still recall how Weiss spoke of him.

He wasn’t blind nor stupid either. He knew what the red scarf wrapped around her neck meant.

This _family_ of doting siblings and kind father figures had struck a nerve in Weiss. Rekindled long lost memories of a family before it had shattered into pieces before her. Before she could see the entire picture with all the ugly strokes that bound them together. 

They’d never really been _that_ family, but there had been a time when it was easier to hide the tar marking them from the innocence of children. Weiss lived in a fantasy world.

Pride and love and happy families. 

Whitley stood up.

“Where are you _going?_ ” Weiss demanded, slipping out of her seat after him.

“This has been _lovely_ , sister,” he lied, “but if you’ve only dragged me out to lecture me about ‘families’ then I have better things to do.”

 _”Whitley!”_ she chastised, though it looked nothing short of ridiculous when she was a full head shorter than him. 

People were glancing at them now which only pushed Whitley to grab his things faster. She might love to make a scene, but Whitley wouldn’t be caught _dead_ making a mockery of himself or the Schnee name. 

“Fine! Just- take this.”

Pausing, Whitley spared his sister a glance, then eyed the pair of envelopes she held out to him. He was half tempted to be _petty_ and ignore her.

Whether it was Weiss’ pleading eyes, or the multitude of strangers watching them, he caved and took them both.

“One is for Klein. The other’s for you. I… hope you’ll come.”

Whitley frowned, bemused by her comment. Whatever it was, _he didn’t care_.

Weiss slipped herself back into her seat, and Whitley collected himself and left through the front door as a cheery little bell rang above his head.

\--

Like skating, piano is a nice little escape. Unlike the ice, this was one routed inside the halls of the Schnee manor.

It was angelic and sweet, playing serenely in the otherwise silent home. Long fingers danced elegantly over keys, chiming the melody Whitley set. 

There had been a time when others accompanied him. When a violin lifted the notes as Winter played, and a voice played along as Weiss sang to her heart’s content.

One by one a contender left until only the piano’s tune was all that remained.

Whitley’s eyes remained closed as he played along, humming quietly to himself as he got swept away with the music.

It was charming. It was relaxing.

It was almost enough to ignore the unfamiliar steps that passed by the open hall every once in awhile.

The first time it happened Whitley had peeked an eye open enough to see just who it was.

The gardener, of course. _Oscar_. He looked out of place and unsure, though Whitley wasn’t about to offer assistance. 

He’d simply ignored the other, smoothly transitioning between one song to another as he hit every key in perfect order. Everytime the footsteps passed, Whitley was perfectly aware of it. Was aware they were slowing, though he refused to acknowledge it.

Not until it was impossible to ignore.

“E-excuse me?”

“What do you want?” Whitley answered, not breaking a beat. His melody continued sweetly, eyes clamped shut.

“The- uh- garden? It’s locked.”

“Mother has the key.”

“Well.. I mean, _yeah_ , but I couldn’t.. find her?”

“She is most likely caught up speaking with father. You’ll need to wait.”

“ _Right_ ,” Oscar resigned, and for a fleeting moment Whitley assumed he’d be left to his own devices.

When footsteps only grew closer, his finger slipped leaving a jarring sour note. He scowled to himself, face remaining forward as he could hear Oscar sit down. When he told Oscar to _wait_ he hadn’t meant in _this_ room. 

He could ignore it, he decided. Compared to performing for father’s guests and some of the richest and most influential power-heads in Atlas, playing in front of a lowly gardener was child’s play. He picked up from his mistake, flowing smoothly through the build.

It was sweet and elegant and easy to lose himself within. Any good audience would know when to keep silent. Oscar, apparently, was the worst kind of audience.

The music lulled to a slow point, and Oscar must have taken it as the end of the song, choosing _then_ to pipe in.

“That sounds amazing.”

Opening his eyes enough to frown at his unwanted audience, the music built again, almost as a stab to Oscar for interrupting.

Still, that didn’t stop the rather smug _’I know’_ from Whitley’s lips, his eyes closed as he sat a little prouder on his seat.

“Why do you play with your eyes closed?” Apparently Oscar couldn’t take a simple hint.

Fingers dancing sweetly over the keys, Whitley’s brows dipped forming a crease between them.

“Where did you learn how to be an audience?”

Oscar at least had the decency to sound a little sheepish with his stage whispered _’sorry’_.

Whitley glanced back at him once more, his fingers slipping once more at his distraction and hitting a note too low. Scowling, he stared down at his hands, re-positioning them before closing his eyes once again.

“I know the song off by heart. I don’t need to _see_ what I’m doing.”

Why was he even bothering to engage? He didn’t need to explain himself, least of all to someone he seriously doubted knew the first thing about music. All he’d done was leave himself open for conversation, and Oscar predictably ran with it.

“So what if you need to read music?”

“I don’t.” 

“You don’t.. what, read?”

“Don’t need to.” _Couldn’t_ , but he wasn’t going to admit that. “I hear a song and I can repeat it.”

“That’s amazing..” Whitley knew that too, though that didn’t stop his moment of ego, lips twitching up into a pleased smile. “So you don’t write your own stuff?”

Whitley’s smile fell, his fingers falling down on the keys at an abrupt end. His head tilted to the right barely before he peered over his left shoulder.

“Why would I need to?”

Oscar seemed off put. Whether it was the sudden stop in music, or Whitley staring back at him, he didn’t know. He still squirmed, knees pressed together tightly as his hands wrung together, unsure what exactly to do with them.

“Well, I just mean… music’s supposed to express yourself, right?”

Brows creased once again, Whitley looked far more perplexed by the idea.

To express oneself? _No_. Music set a mood.

You repeated the music, and it made you _feel_. It led you.

He played what he was supposed to play.

He felt how he was supposed to feel.

Why would he need to write his own music when it was already written out for him?

Whitley opened his mouth to respond, quickly silencing himself when another set of footsteps approached.

He straightened himself up, facing forward as he returned to his music, eyes closed.

“Master Whitley,” the voice addressed, formal and polite, though it quickly rose in surprise. “Oh, hello. I wasn’t aware you had a guest.”

“Oh I’m- not a guest.”

Blatantly ignoring Oscar’s correction, the owner of the voice directed his thoughts entirely to the pianist.

“I see you haven’t offered your guest a drink, master Whitley.”

Fingers falling against the keys again, Whitley scowled towards the butler.

Klein had a bold habit to _chastise_ openly. Sometimes he was far too brave for his own good. He thought that just because he’d known Whitley since he was a baby, he could get away with metaphorical murder, and no one bar their father would knock him down for talking out of turn.

 _He was right_ , but that didn’t mean Whitley had to be happy about it.

“He is not a guest. He’s the _gardener_.”

“Is he gardening right this moment?”

“No,” Whitley begrudgingly answered, knowing full well it was pointless to argue. 

“Then, for now, you are a guest,” Klein directed to Oscar now, offering a smile far too pleased with himself. “Sit tight, sir. I’ll get you a drink.”

“Klein, I’ll have-” The butler was already gone, deliberate heavy steps echoing in his wake as Whitley scowled at the open archway.

“He seems.. nice?”

“He’s one wrong remark away from being fired.”

Oscar looked mortified at the threat, multi-coloured eyes wide in honest shock.

“You _wouldn’t_ ,” he accused, though it was blatantly uncertain. He didn’t know Whitley. Didn’t know this family. Suddenly the idea of the nice short butler being let go was all too real.

He looked far too open and terrified by the idea, and Whitley turned away before that crumbled his resolve.

“If I wanted him fired, he’d be gone by now,” Whitley offered, and he could practically feel Oscar’s tension ease.

It was odd, really. Oscar didn’t know Klein for longer than a minute. Why he was so concerned over a man he’d never met was beyond him.

Whitley returned to the music, but it was low and empty. More mindless playing than actual effort. Background noise to keep the house from falling to silence.

“Klein makes an excellent lemonade,” Whitley mused, hoping that despite Klein’s bold disregard, he’d still return with a drink for him too.

“Oh, I hope he uses the lemons from the garden. They’re pretty ripe.”

In all honesty, Whitley hadn’t considered _where_ the produce came from. It made sense, of course, that they’d utilise the garden. He just… never _considered it_.

Humming non-committal, his fingers wandered aimlessly in a quiet melody.

“You can ask him when he returns. I’m sure he will _adore_ your level of curiosity.”

“Better than you, you mean,” Oscar offered, and Whitley was sure he could _hear_ a smile rise in his voice.

Glancing back at the other, he was unsurprised to find he was right. Oscar looked somewhere caught between guilty and amused, one corner lifted in a lopsided smile. It was boyish and objectively _cute_ , and Whitley rolled his eyes at it. He was just as bad as Klein at talking back, only he didn’t have the years of connection between them to back him up.

Whitley found himself amused regardless.

“You-”

Whitley was cut off by a door slamming down the hall, loud and angry in a way that rattled down to their bones. Oscar flinched, eyeing the archway in concern, but Whitley only turned back to his piano.

Both their smiles were wiped away.

“Mother will be free. You can go now,” he waved off, eyes falling shut as a practised melody started up renewed.

“Right,” Oscar answered nervously, pushing himself up reluctantly. “I’ll.. see you around.”

Whitley didn’t answer, letting himself get carried away with the music as Oscar moved to go.

After a moment’s thought, Whitley piped up just as Oscar was rounding the corner.

“I’ll be sure to send Klein your way with your drink.”

Footsteps stopped, and Whitley didn’t need to open his eyes to know the gardener’s eyes were on him.

Oscar was quiet for too long, and the music pitched up against Whitley’s intention.

“Thanks.”

Oscar left and the music continued, filling the empty room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry, both Oscar and Whitley got a drink in the end. 
> 
> Thank you for sticking around and reading!! And an extra thank you to any kudos or comments!!
> 
> If you want to catch me on tumblr you can find me [here](https://taziidcvil.tumblr.com/)


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oscar?”
> 
> The gardener was half coiled in fetal position, face pinched as he rubbed at his head. Hearing his name, he winced, glancing back up at Whitley.
> 
> “Did you just-” Gawking, Whitley’s attention flicked from the broken branch, and the sheepish male sitting on top of it. “Did you just _fall out of a tree?_ ”
> 
> Oscar’s hand moved from his head, hovering as he assessed the situation he was in.
> 
> “That branch wasn’t as sturdy as I thought.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh man, it's been two months already?? time flies when you're stressed out and dying!
> 
> I did admittedly go on a week long holiday, so i can't complain. However, we're short staffed at my job and i'm the only casual. I've been working 8 day runs with 1-2 days off between them. So time, i have none!!
> 
> BUT i managed to FINALLY get this chapter done!! You know when you have a set idea of how things go in a chapter and the characters just,,, do whatever they want instead?
> 
> Yeah, these punks just wanted to do their own thing. I got the points done that i wanted, and got the story heading the way i wanted, but absolutely these two just wanted to do their own thing!
> 
> I don't know when the next chapter will be up. I have a lot of work atm and hopefully we'll get more staff soon so i can have more days off to write.  
> but with my october project coming up, chapter fics are a bit on the backburner atm. Hopefully the wait wont be THAT long, and hopefully this will tie over until then!  
> But I can absolutely promise this fic isn't going anywhere, and it will be finished. even if the new volume comes out before then and possibly ruins everything ;n;
> 
> Please enjoy!!

Home was always far too tense whenever mother got _bold_.

Sad as it may have been, the air wasn’t nearly as heavy when she remained secluded in her wing. It was an unfortunate catch twenty-two.

Whitley resented her when she remained locked away, and he resented her when she caused a stir within father. 

There was no winner but, then again, that was the point. There was no winning for any of them. Only _Jacques_.

When Jacques was winning, things were simply _easier_. Whitley wasn’t winning, and Willow certainly wasn’t, but it was bearable. The pressure was lifted from them all, leaving them in the natural state of _melancholy_.

Today, mother was _bold_. More than just the one day, really. The arguments had dragged on for over a week now and Whitley found himself counting the days until she inevitably gave up. 

What was the matter, Whitley didn’t care. _Clearly_ it wasn’t worth so much of a hassle. She had to know Jacques would win and it would be easier for all of them if she would just _give up_.

When they fought, Whitley did his best to stay out of the way. He’d already written it off as pointless. Everything that woman harped on about was. Whitley wasn’t going to risk the attention being turned towards him.

Normally he could weather such harsh conditions within the Schnee manor. _Normally_ mother would have given up her senseless grievances.

This fight just happened to be _far_ from normal and there was only so much Whitley could take.

Which is why he didn’t stick around to witness their hysteria.

The winter was a lovely time for strolls down the bustling city. The blistering cold, biting at his ears and stealing the heat from is cheeks. It was _pleasant_ and, while others bundled up downed in gowns of fur and fleece, Whitley was unperturbed in his nicely pressed suit.

Casual, of course! Or at the very least casual in _his_ sense. He’d even opted out of a tie! His blue blazer was enough for _him_ to starve off the cold, lithe fingers warmed in woollen gloves. 

He earned a few confused glances as the cruel wind picked up, but Whitley was completely unbothered.

Until life decided to _throw_ an apparent ‘bother’ at him.

Whitley had heard the snap above, stopping short just as he heard a panicked yell. He’d made to look up only for _something_ to drop from above. Taking a quick step back, Whitley stared down at what had nearly crashed down on top of him, his heart leaping to his throat in shock and fear. He reached up, placing a delicate hand over his heart like it would help slow it down.

It took him a second to really understand just _what_ happened.

At his feet, along with a splintered branch, sat a familiar face. Twisted in pain as it was, there was no mistaking that it was-

“Oscar?”

The gardener was half coiled in fetal position, face pinched as he rubbed at his head. Hearing his name, he winced, glancing back up at Whitley.

“Did you just-” Gawking, Whitley’s attention flicked from the broken branch, and the sheepish male sitting on top of it. “Did you just _fall out of a tree?_ ”

Oscar’s hand moved from his head, hovering as he assessed the situation he was in.

“That branch wasn’t as sturdy as I thought.”

“You almost fell on me!”

Huffing a half-laugh, Oscar glanced the Schnee over.

“I’m fine, _thanks for asking_.”

Oscar held out his hand, a silent plea for help, and Whitley promptly ignored it. Shaking his head at the ludicrousy of it all, Whitley only stepped around his obstacle, straying from the path long enough to get around.

 _”Oookay then,”_ he heard from behind himself, along with the dragging of what Whitley assumed was the branch. 

He refused to look back and get sucked into _that_ mess.

“Hey, _wait!_ ”

Whitley absolutely would not wait. That defeated the purpose of walking away. Unfortunately, Whitley also refused to run for _anything_ , and Oscar wasn’t as easy to shake as Whitley would like.

“Don’t you have a tree to fall out of?”

Oscar caught up to him, slowing down his jog to keep in stride with Whitley’s long legs.

“Don’t you-” Oscar started, his voice trailing off as he came up blank. 

Whitley turned his head enough to raise a _very_ condescending eyebrow, hands folded behind his back.

“Have a piano to play?” Oscar ended off lamely, words mumbled in clear shame.

“Ooh, _clever_ ,” Whitley chirped, insincerity and sarcasm laced in his chipper voice. He rolled his eyes to the sky, soft flakes of snow flitting past his vision before he returned his focus forward. “Certainly the witty one, aren’t you?”

“Shut up,” Oscar laughed off, sounding more amused than insulted.

Whitley, however, frowned at the crude words. So off-handed, as if he hadn’t just breathed such a rude thing. He watched the gardener from the corner of his eye, jaw set as he tried to _assess_ Oscar without making it overtly obvious.

Oscar had gloved hands tucked under his armpits, arms pressed tightly to his chest as wisps of air huffed between his lips. He looked far more focused on the chill then Whitley himself. Deciding that the insult was _somehow_ not an intended insult, Whitley concluded that it was just a _commoner thing_.

“You don’t do very well in the cold, do you?” Whitley drawled, conceding that Oscar was simply _not_ going to let him be.

Oscar laughed again, more strained this time through chattering teeth.

“Was it that obvious?”

“You’re _shivering_ ,” Whitley pointed out, watching as Oscar proved his point by trembling at a slight breeze.

“Yeah, well, not all of us can survive with ice in our veins. Seriously, I’m wearing _more_ than you.”

Unlike Oscar’s pitiful shaking, Whitley took a deep breath through his nose as another gust of wind ruffled his collar. He didn’t so much as quiver.

Atlisians didn’t feel the cold, which was the first blaring clue that Oscar _wasn’t_ one, besides his odd fashion sense.

“Why are you in Atlas?” Whitley questioned. He didn’t need Oscar to confirm what he already knew. “This isn’t the _best_ place to visit if you’re so adverse to the cold, _especially_ during the winter.”

Today was actually rather _mild_ by any Atlisian’s standards. It was easy to tell simply by the sheer numbers of people on the streets. Everyone took advantage of the lull in the cold while they had it.

“I’m only here for a few months. I’m actually excited to see if you guys even _have_ a winter. Or if you’re pretty much stuck in eternal winter.”

Whitley rolled his eyes once again. _Typical_. There was a clear difference between the seasons to Whitley at least. An outsider, however, seemed to struggle to see those same signs. All they knew was that it was _cold_ , just at varying stages.

“My aunt got me a temporary job with a florist here. I was asked to take care of the floral work at a wedding here, actually.”

“You?” Whitley scoffed, brow raising once more. His smile was disbelieving though a genuine curiosity sparked in his eye. “Such a long way to go for _one_ wedding? And you’re so important that they’d ask _you?_ ”

Whitley’s eyes raked over Oscar’s form, critical as he tried to judge the other’s worth.

Whitley would be the first to admit that he didn’t have the slightest clue about gardening. If Oscar was someone of _importance_ then it would explain why his mother had accepted his work. Oscar, however, did not carry himself with an air of superiority or dignity. Especially when he was currently sniffling like a child and rubbing his cherry red nose against the back of his hand in a futile attempt to warm it up.

Whitley cringed at the sight.

“Friends,” Oscar admitted, sniffing back snot. Pulling out a handkerchief from his pant pocket, Whitley offered it to Oscar which Oscar accepted with a quiet _‘thank you’_. “I was invited anyway. I guess they just had confidence in me, you know?”

“Remarkably so, apparently.”

Oscar blew his nose and Whitley instantly turned his head away, instead eyeing over a group of children playing in the snow rather than Oscar’s private and frankly _disgusting_ act.

“The Schnee Manor was recommended to me, so I thought I could make some money before heading back.”

“I see..” Whitley drawled, not particularly caring about _where_ his mother got her gardener’s business. It was more of a politeness. A trigger for Oscar to keep talking rather than to expect some form of back-and-forth.

Oscar wiped his nose before pulling the handkerchief away from his face, frowning down at it.

“Did you… _want this back?_ ”

“Absolutely not.” It was soiled now. Ruined and rendered useless. Whitley also did not want it anywhere near his pocket even after he used it, let alone some random, no matter how friendly.

“I’ll wash it!”

“I don’t want that thing anywhere near me ever again.”

“Seriously? That’s kind of a waste.”

“I have plenty more.”

“It’s..” Eyeing the soft handkerchief in his hand, Oscar noted the neat little ‘W.S.’ stitched in pale blue in one corner of the white fabric. “It’s _embroidered_.”

If Oscar had a point, Whitley didn’t see it. The fair haired male only stared and waited for Oscar to continue, one brow arching up when he was only met with silence.

Oscar just shoved the handkerchief in his pant pocket muttering something along the line of _’forget it’_. 

“Regardless,” Whitley shifted sharply, head raised high with self-importance, “it _can’t_ be that hard to water plants. Any old fool would suffice.”

“Wait, you think gardening is _easy?_ ” Oscar cut off incredulously, stopping in his tracks. For some reason beyond him, Whitley stopped too.

“It _cannot_ be hard.” _Surely._ “Anyone who can pick up a hose could do it.” Not that Whitley would _ever_.

Oscar gawked, mouth open unintelligently, and Whitley resisted the urge to tell him to _stop_. It was unflattering.

“Okay!” Oscar seemed to finally land on, breathing a short hysterical laugh. “What about weeding?”

The thought of getting down in the dirt and actually _putting his hands into it_ made Whitley physically recoil, his lip pulling up in disgust.

“Pruning the dying branches and leaves to make room for new growth?”

Whitley’s sneer eased away with uncertainty, his eyes dropping in thought.

“Replanting and digging?”

Now it was Whitley’s turn to open his mouth only to come up _blank_.

“Waste disposal? Pest control?”

Whitley doubted there were any insects or other _nasties_ in the manor. Or, at the very least, he hoped there weren’t. Quickly, Whitley’s eyes scanned over Oscar like _he_ might be carrying them.

“The heavy lifting?”

Whitley’s sight slowly travelled over Oscar’s arms. Under the layers of shirts and jackets, it was hard to define just what was muscle. At the very least, he was far bulkier than Whitley. Not nearly to the levels of those such as Ironwood, but… while Whitley was easily taller, Oscar was certainly _thicker_.

“Climate control and-”

“I get it,” Whitley cut off, struggling not to seethe so clearly.

It got under his skin more than he liked. Not so much that he was wrong. No, that he could deal with. He’d been wrong before, and only fools were incapable of taking in new information and understanding it.

No, it pissed him off that plants and gardens took so much time and effort to thrive, and mother’s was _breathtaking_.

It was frustrating and Whitley didn’t want to talk about it any longer.

“I was wrong,” Whitley admitted, his hands raised from behind his back in a palm-up shrug, uncaring. “That doesn’t change my opinion. It’s still ridiculous of you to come all this way for _one_ wedding when you’re so clearly incapable of standing the cold.”

Dropping the argument, Oscar kicked up his step again as the two of them continued on their way while Oscar tightened his grip around himself.

“How _do_ you stand this cold? I’m freezing just _looking_ at you.”

“You get use to it,” Whitley simply brushed off, easily sidestepping as a wayward snowball flew past him. He shot a withering glare towards the group of children but continued on seamlessly. “The cold is lovely. The pure snow and the touch of ice.”

Oscar snorted, apparently finding something _funny_ with Whitley’s words.

“You’re _serious_.”

“It’s true!” Whitley defended. “It’s a lovely time of the year. The numbing cold snuffing out the awful plants.”

Oscar laughed harder now, eyes creasing shut as he faltered in his step. Whitley watched, amused with Oscar’s own hilarity before he got a front row seat to Oscar getting a face full of snow. Closing your eyes near a snowball fight was _always_ a mistake.

Oscar sputtered, snow sticking to his lips and lashes as he struggled to come to terms with what happened. _He deserved it_ , Whitley decided, satisfaction breaking into a grin before Oscar swooped down.

“Don’t-!” He was far too late. Oscar already had a handful making a crude snow _’ball’_ and hurling it towards the pack of children. It wasn’t nearly dense enough, and the poorly made ball broke apart as it sailed, never reaching its target of screaming children.

Whitley rolled his eyes, easily dodging another now _aimed_ snowball. Poor naive Oscar. No one had ever taught him not to engage with children.

“Kind of edgy, isn’t it?” Oscar joked, flinching and failing to get out of the way of another ball. It exploded against Oscar’s shoulder, the residue splatting against Whitley’s suit before the Schnee brushed it off. “ _Snuff out the plants_. Who talks like that?”

“ _I_ talk like that,” Whitley answered, watching as Oscar made another pitiful ball and failed to hit a child. “You’re terrible at this.”

“Then _help me!_ ”

“Help _you?_ ” Whitley mocked, ducking effortlessly as a ball sailed above him. “You got yourself in this mess. I have nothing to do with this recklessness.”

“You mean ‘fun’?” Oscar taunted back, finally compacting an imperfect sphere and managing to graze a squealing child. 

“I’m too old for ‘fun’.”

Oscar’s head shot towards him, eyes wide and mouth cocked in a crooked smile. In the same motion, a snowball smacked him in the side of his head, puffing his hair in white. He looked stupid and shameless and joyful all the same, and Whitley’s shoulders tensed at the breathless laugh Oscar offered.

“Were you ever _’young enough’_ for fun?”

What a ridiculous thing to suggest. Whitley’s brows creased with a frown, his lips pursed as he scrounged through scattered memories. No one remembered their childhood perfectly. He had fun, of course! Sometimes.

Well, it wasn’t as if these things were important enough to remember.

Unlike dodging, apparently, because Whitley was blindsided by a snowball to the cheek.

Gasping, Whitley froze up, eyes wide as he stared disbelieving at Oscar’s face. Oscar, far more amused by the turn of events, was curled over snorting with laughter. It was unrefined and noisy, and Whitley scooped down to grasp his own ball of snow. It was not Oscar who threw the ball, but he was certainly going to face the brunt of Whitley’s wrath for _laughing about it_.

Dumping the snow on the back of Oscar’s head, the gardener only cackled louder, the group of children moving on from the hysterical man and his disbelieving companion in favour of continuing their game.

“You’re ridiculous!”

“You should have seen your _face_ ,” Oscar counted, peeking up enough to look Whitley in the eye.

Whitley wasn’t sure if it was the snow melting on his cheek or an actual tear, but the corner of his eye was wet with _something_. His cheeks were even redder than before, hair mused with a layer of snow, and Whitley quickly dumped another handful of snow on the other before Oscar kicked it back. It was completely inefficient, but Whitley stopped to kick it off his nice shoes all the same.

“You have to do _something_ for fun! You skate, right?”

“That’s a _job_ , I don’t do it for _fun_ ,” Whitley answered as if he was _insulted_ by the suggestion. He didn’t question how Oscar knew that much. After all, his fame _did_ proceed him.

“Why can’t it be both?” Oscar suggested, still bent over as he collected more snow. Whitley only backed up, hands raised and frown set in a poor warning.

“Well it’s not like _you_ can have fun with plants,” Whitley accused, easily dodging another snowball as it dissipated against a tree behind him.

“Oh I can _absolutely_ have fun with plants! Gardening’s fun!”

“You _just_ finished explaining to me how laborious it is!”

“That doesn’t make it any less fun!”

“That doesn’t even make sense! If it’s not easy, then how is it fun?”

“Is skating easy?”

What a ludicrous question! Whitley scoffed, batting away another snowball before it could hit him before he scooped up one of his own. _Clearly_ Oscar couldn’t be _civil!_

“Of course not! It’s painstaking and exhausting and takes weeks of training and building of skill-”

“And people _still_ have fun doing it,” Oscar pointed out, hands up in a show of defeat.

Whitley’s arm was raised with a ball of snow, hanging there motionlessly for a fleeting moment before he dropped it uselessly, the ball crumbling on the ground.

“I’m not _people_.”

There was no point in doing it for _fun_. Others did that. Others who didn’t have to worry about deadlines and shows and form and media. Others whose entire existence didn’t revolve around the ice itself. To suggest _Whitley_ had fun on the ice was _ludicrous_.

“You’re boring,” Oscar scoffed, like _Whitley_ was the ridiculous one. “Just because it’s your job doesn’t mean you can’t enjoy it. It’s my job to climb trees and I still have fun doing that.”

“You fell out of the tree.”

“It was still fun,” Oscar shrugged off, and Whitley raised a disbelieving brow. _Doubtful_.

“Climbing trees isn’t _’fun’_.”

“Have you ever climbed one?”

“Of course not.”

“Then how do you know?”

“I’m not climbing a tree, Oscar.”

Oscar clicked his tongue, vibrant mixed eyes flicking between the group of children playing further away, then the tree behind the Schnee.

“Let's make a deal.”

 _That_ sounded like the beginning of a very bad idea. Without hearing it, Whitley could tell agreeing would only result in something awful.

“If I skate on ice, _you_ have to climb a tree.”

Whitley’s mouth opened into a small ‘o’, a crease forming between his brows completely _thrown_ with such a stupid offer. Of all the things he could suggest-!

“ _Why_ should I care if _you_ skate?”

“Because you strike me as the type who enjoys watching people fall over.”

Whitley’s brows rose, his shoulders laxing as he mulled it over. Despite what Oscar suggested, Whitley wasn’t all that into stupid slap-stick humour, and he _didn’t_ particularly care to watch armatures slip on the ice.

Oscar, however? 

Whitley hummed a quiet and contained laugh of his own, hands folded behind his back once again as he picked back up his stride, a sly grin playing on his lips as Oscar kept faithfully to his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things that weren't suppose to happen in this chapter but happened anyway bc muses said 'screw it, i do what i want'  
> \- oscar falling out of a tree  
> \- whitley giving oscar a handkerchief  
> \- getting into a snowball fight
> 
> these are the things that happen when you write while exhausted
> 
> If you want to catch me on tumblr you can find me [here](https://taziidcvil.tumblr.com/)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I could have rented it for the two of us but _nooo_ you had to do this _now_ ,” Whitley flicked his wrist in a gesture of exasperation. At the very least Oscar seemed to drop the humoured tone to his voice.
> 
> “Why.. would you want to rent it for _us?_ ”
> 
> “So I wouldn’t have to deal with _people_. And the music is _woeful_ ,” Whitley answered, resigning himself to the oncoming tragedy and striding inside the familiar ice rink.
> 
> Oscar lingered back for a moment, dragging his feet once he started to follow behind. _”Right.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First update since V7 started! GOD! I'm sorry this took so long but hopefully this made up for the wait!
> 
> WHO ELSE IS LOVING THIS WHITLEY CONTENT THIS VOLUME??  
> VALIDATION!!

“There’s people here.”

That alone should have been a good enough reason to turn back. More people meant people in his space. Inexperienced people who would get in the way and cut him off and ruin his time on the ice. He didn’t come to skate to deal with mediocrity. Didn’t come to be careful of everyone else’s actions. If he had more time, he could have rented a time for just the two of them. Instead of dealing with a multitude of idiots on ice, he could just deal with… _Oscar_.

Oscar, on the other hand, didn’t seem to see it the same way.

He laughed. Actually _laughed_. Snorted and undignified in an ugly sound that should be disturbing. 

“There- uhh- sure is people here,” Oscar offers back, and Whitley rolled his eyes at the obvious mockery. Honestly, how could he not see what the problem was?

“I could have rented it for the two of us but _nooo_ you had to do this _now_ ,” Whitley flicked his wrist in a gesture of exasperation. At the very least Oscar seemed to drop the humoured tone to his voice.

“Why.. would you want to rent it for _us?_ ”

“So I wouldn’t have to deal with _people_. And the music is _woeful_ ,” Whitley answered, resigning himself to the oncoming tragedy and striding inside the familiar ice rink.

Oscar lingered back for a moment, dragging his feet once he started to follow behind. _”Right.”_

Whitley had been inside this ice rink multiple times. More times than he cared to count, from ages that were long hazy to him. 

When he’d started, he’d always be dragged along with his family. The moment he’d found his feet, his mother had tugged him along, encouraging him onto the ice with his sisters. Father too. It was one thing they’d seem to agree on.

One thing that didn’t drive a wedge between them.

Hazy memories of shaking on the ice. Cold hands holding his own, guiding him to find his feet. Soft encouragement and stern criticism. 

He’d taken to it like a duck in water, and father had been so proud. So demanding that his sisters taught him more. He remembered the thrill of the attention. The elation of being _good_ at something. 

After awhile, he didn’t even notice the chilled air anymore.

Just guiding hands and the joy of a spin and calm classical music.

He’d learned how to function on the ice without two of those things, but one had stayed with him faithfully. Until today, apparently.

 _Jazz_. Who skated to jazz? Not even a soft jazz, but far more fast paced. Poppy and energetic and absolutely not something skate to.

“We could still go,” Whitley offers the moment Oscar reaches his side. He wasn’t even sure how he was supposed to concentrate both with so many people here and the unrefined music.

“You can go,” Oscar offered, fidgeting with his hands at his sides as he looked around curiously, taking it all in. “But I’m not getting on that ice alone, so I’d have to go too.”

Oh, Oscar could play dumb all he liked, but Whitley was no fool. He thought he was _so clever_ guilt-tripping him like that. 

He sighed, long and exasperated, before he waved Oscar to follow along. “Alright, _fine_ , but I retain the right to mock you when you eventually slip.”

“I thought that was what we were here for in the first place,” Oscar quipped back, his voice light with attempted humour. 

“Your insistence on making a fool of yourself was entirely your own idea and I will take no credit for your bad decisions.”

“But you came along anyway?”

“That I did.”

Finding his private locker amongst a litter of open and empty holes, Whitley pulled out his personal pair of skates. They were a pretty shade of icy blue, gleaming with a glitter shine, and stark white laces. While the blades were secured in their hard plastic cases, they were still spotless and shiny. A pretty little pair that looked like they’d just been pulled off the shelf, completely untouched.

So much unlike the ones the rink offered.

“You’re going to have to borrow a _public_ pair,” Whitley pointed out, voice laced heavy with disgust.

Oscar wasn’t nearly as disturbed about the idea. Instead, he’d breathed a quiet little laugh as he wandered closer to a display of a multitude of different skates. They were all ugly and muddled in colours. Scuffed up blacks and dull browns. Not nearly as refined or gorgeous as Whitley’s, but it was what Oscar got for demanding they come without a plan.

From the corner of his eye, Whitley noticed a commotion from the front desk. A sudden jolt of motion, and Whitley’s head whipped towards the counter to eye the workers gathered together, staring intently at them.

At the front of their little interloper brigade was the orange haired woman, eyes wide and half laying over the counter to get a better look. She was chattering to her coworkers, obnoxious with her curiosity as a wide cat-like grin split across her face the moment she realised Whitley was watching.

Whitley rounded Oscar, bodily putting himself between the boy and their audience as he started sorting through the blades.

He heard a chatter of laughter behind his back but decided to ignore it for the time being. One day he swore he was going to put in a complaint.

“How do you even walk in these?” Oscar pressed, oblivious to the show the workers were helping themselves to. 

Saddled up beside him, Whitley started sorting through the adult male sizes, purposely skipping over the ones that looked far too filthy to handle.

Together Whitley and Oscar managed to find him a pair of orange skate that weren’t too _disgusting_. They’d be halfway decent if someone had given them even the slightest amount of care that Whitley did. At the very least, Oscar didn’t seem to mind.

Whitley had put his own pair on too, standing and moving with his practiced balance with ease. It had taken a while of tying and retying for Oscar to find the right tightness he’d wanted before he awkwardly shoved himself up.

Walking on the carpet was the easy part. Awkward and clanky, but Oscar looked rather proud of his own ability to walk regardless. It would be short-lived, Whitley knew that, but it was rather endearing of him to celebrate so early.

The gawkers finally seemed to disperse though Whitley wasn’t oblivious to their brief glances as they worked, all too smug that Whitley had lowered himself to the point of visiting the rink with _other people_ present. 

He tried not to think about them. Or the agitating music. Or the mass chaos of untrained skaters all moving to their own desires rather than any form of coordination amongst them.

Instead he focused on Oscar, and his insistence to stare down at his feet with his arms held out in fear of falling. Short shuffled little steps as Whitley paced painfully slow beside him, guiding him to the rink gate.

Whitley slipped onto the rink first, transitioning from carpet to ice with complete grace as Oscar lingered on the edge.

The glide of ice was instantly comforting. Familiar and fluid as he gave a slow backwards circle, arms folded behind his back as he caught Oscar’s gaze again.

Poor thing… not even on the ice yet and he looked like a cat caught in the metaphorical tree.

Whitley skidded to a stop, standing gracefully tall and a few paces from the edge of the rink, waiting.

“Okay, wait, I-” Oscar fumbled, eyes cast down as his head flicked back and forth between his feet and the ice he’d yet to get on. “How do I.. do this part?”

“Just _walk_.”

“Walk?”

“Walk,” Whitley repeated, moving forward now in a slow motion before he held out a helping hand. “It’s not that hard. Just small steps.”

Oscar took his hand gratefully and followed Whitley’s advice, shuffling forward until his blades hit the smooth surface.

The moment he touched down, Oscar’s face lit up, vibrant eyes lit up as he stared down in wonder. It was pure and awestruck, and Whitley flinched away the moment he felt warmth settle in his cheeks. 

_Odd_ , he thought, _the chill never bothered him before_.

Whitley immediately let go of Oscar’s hands and he slipped back, keeping himself just out of reach as Oscar scrambled to try and grab him again.

Oscar began to wobble as his legs started to spread, his skates angled out and worsening the further he moved.

“W-wait, Whitley! Why did you-?”

“I seem to recall you promising me a fall,” Whitley mused, pressing one long finger against one side of his chin in mock thought, skating back to keep _just_ out of touch. “I can’t hold your hand like a child forever, Oscar.”

“I just got on here!” Oscar argued, shaking and wavering as his arms flapped around, unable to reach either Whitley or the wall. “Whit-leeeeey-!”

Oscar slipped forward, arms stretched out to catch his fall, only for Whitley to catch his arm and straighten him up before he could land face-first.

“Don’t fall forward, you’ll break your nose.”

Oscar tried to straighten himself up only to overcompensate, leaning back as his skates slide forward, and suddenly Whitley found himself clinging to hold Oscar up from falling on his ass.

“Don’t fall backwards either!”

“Then how _am_ I suppose to fall!” Oscar flailed, finally managing to straighten himself up.

It was cruel and Whitley knew it, but how could he ignore such an open invitation? The mischievous thought sparked in his mind and he rationalised it with the fact that Oscar would have to learn how to fall properly sooner rather than later.

So Whitley slipped his arm from Oscar’s hold and shifted his motion forward, gliding easily to Oscar’s side before he gave a slight push. Honestly, it didn’t take much to put Oscar off his centre gravity and crumble to his side.

He’d given a brief yelp before he landed on his side, eyes wide in shock and betrayal as Whitley gave an innocent spin, looking far too happy with himself. Elegant and beautiful and far more controlled than Oscar’s fumbling.

Maybe he should feel bad. Perhaps it was _cruel_ of him to take pleasure in Oscar’s wide eyed stare in complete disbelief. Surely he shouldn’t _laugh_ at it. But how could one blame him? After chancing Oscar a glance, Whitley couldn’t help the slight hiccup in his chest. An unintentional flicker of laughter before Whitley could catch himself and purse his lips to keep it contained.

“You know, you’re kind of an ass when you want to be.”

“And you, dear Oscar, are a clutz. But we can’t all be perfect.”

Whitley gave a slow backwards spin, looking downright proud of himself as Oscar struggled to push up from the ice. It was a sad sight, and Whitley kindly offered his hand to grasp.

Oscar was admittedly heavy set, and Whitley was yanked completely from his superior air when he almost toppled down too. Catching himself, Whitley braced as Oscar pulled himself up.

“How about- I just _don’t fall_ ,” Oscar proposed, wobbly on his feet as he clung to Whitley’s hand. He wasn’t about to let Whitley wiggle from his grasp so easily this time.

Not that Whitley had any plans of doing so. He got his laugh and his great satisfaction from Oscar’s fumble, and Whitley didn’t come here to simply goof around. Never before. Not now. Especially not with so many people gliding around them.

Instead Whitley held out his other hand, taking Oscar’s free hand in a gentle hold as he started to move back. Slow and steady, he pulled Oscar along, confident in his motions while Oscar tensed up.

With Whitley grounding him, the shaking slowed to stop. He didn’t dare move his feet, instead staring with uncertainty between Whitley, their hands, and the ice below as they moved forward.

“Take steps,” Whitley demanded, and Oscar’s head snapped up.

“What?”

Whitley rolled his eyes, an exasperated sigh on his lips as he led Oscar around a curve.

“Shuffle your feet. Small steps. Go on, hop to it.”

“Oh, right. _Right._ ”

Oscar’s brows pinched in a frown, worry twitching at his temple as he followed Whitley’s advice, barely lifting his feet from the ice in short shuffled motion. He moved forward an inch and Whitley moved back an inch in turn, speeding up to keep him at arm’s length.

“Keep going,” Whitley encouraged, looking down at Oscar’s feet before sparing a glance around.

It was frustrating keeping everyone else in mind. Whitley could absolutely skate this rink blind, but it was a different thing entirely when there were obstacles in the form of people. No amount of experience saved him from some bumbling fool getting in the way.

“You’re doing fine.”

Oscar breathed a laugh at that, quirking a smile as he caught Whitley’s eye. “Really dishing out the highest of compliments, aren’t ya?”

Whitley huffed through his nose as he let go of his grip on Oscar’s hands in favour of catching fingertips. Oscar’s eyes widened in instant fear, uncertainty obvious as he wobbled for a moment before straightening himself again. Whitley’s fingers only acted as a guide, pulling without the added support. But each step grew with confidence, and Oscar’s trepidation bled away as steps eased into gliding motions.

“I’m- I’m doing it!”

“Of course you are,” Whitley brushed off, speeding up until their fingertips broke apart. “You have _me_ for a teacher.”

Oscar’s laugh was wilder now. Breathless and ecstatic as he got his rhythm. Long smooth motions, attempting to mirror Whitley’s own. “Just a little humble bra-AH!”

Whitley’s hands reached up to cover his mouth, eyes wide in shock as Oscar clipped his own skate and crashed to his side. Some skaters behind him swerved dramatically to avoid him, only managing to crash into someone else and end in a muddle of bodies.

Whitley’s eyes crinkled with hidden laughter as Oscar cringed, raising a hand out in apology.

“Sorry! Sorry! My bad!”

“Well!” Whitley cut off, dropping his hands the moment he was sure he wasn’t going to burst into laughter. “At the very least I know you listen to me.”

Pushing himself up from his hip, Oscar took Whitley’s outstretched hand once again, heaving himself up with an apologetic smile to the others.

“Lets try that again,” Whitley offered, letting Oscar’s hand go as they returned to their circuit. 

There were a few more tumbles after that. Awkward landings and offers of hands. One after the other until Oscar wasn’t putting so much weight into Whitley’s hand to get back up.

As they continued, each spill become more distant from the last. Oscar looked less like a child fearful of slipping with each circle. He eased himself into a faster speed with confidence, and Whitley continued to match his pace. Oscar became less tense with each motion, pride beaming on his face.

It was brilliant and pure _joy_ , and Whitley found himself forgetting his own motions in favor of watching him. Oscar got overly confident, arms held out in balance before he gave an awkward and jerked spin.

He fumbled, leaning too far forward before he caught himself, eyes wide as he settled back straight. Disbelieving that he’d actually managed it without falling, Oscar’s head shot up to Whitley, face open and honest with an elated laugh.

He looked so _vibrant_ , and Whitley’s breath caught high in his throat, choking him in the form of a lump as he forgot his own feet.

Whitley’s foot slipped forward, and he fell back, too shocked at his mistake to act accordingly. It had been years since he last fell on the ice that he’d completely forgotten how to actually _do it_.

As he fell back, the only thing he could see was Oscar’s brilliant smile twisting into a look of pure shock right before the collision shook his view.

Landing on his ass, Whitley gawked at his own mistake, wide-eyed as Oscar struggled to stop.

He didn’t. Oscar’s boot hit Whitley’s calf before he toppled over Whitley’s long legs, crashing hard on his side as Whitley jerked his legs back.

 _He couldn’t believe it_. He couldn’t believe himself! He didn’t fall on the ice! He hadn’t for a long _long_ time. What’s more, his imperfection had dragged Oscar down with him, and fear bubbled in his chest.

Leaning forward, Whitley reached out a hand for the other, uncertain.

“Oscar, are you-”

He was promptly cut off with a rumble of laughter, heavy and warm as Oscar rolled over and flopped on his back. His hair hung back from his face, cheeks red from the cold as he openly smiled and laughed.

That same lump in his throat grew in size, his chest squeezing tight as Oscar’s eyes flashed towards him.

“I’m fine,” Oscar reassured, waving Whitley’s hand off. “Are _you_ okay?”

Whitley had been far too focused on Oscar to consider himself. He was relieved, for one. A little indignant that Oscar felt like he even had to _ask_ that. Admittedly, he was also just a touch giddy over it too.

He shook that thought and focused on the audacity. Like _he_ had to be coddled like a child.

Whitley pushed himself up easily, slipping back to perfect motions with ease. 

Oscar used the half-wall to get himself up, all while watching, _and Oscar made sure he did_.

No, if Oscar was going to question his skill on the ice, then Whitley was going to prove _why_ that was a stupid thing to do.

Whitley parted from the flow of people on the ice, shifting to the centre with practiced grace as Oscar flattened himself against the wall to keep out of everyone’s way.

Whitley kept his eye on him through moving bodies, eyes caught in a sense of challenge. _To show off._

Whitley started with twirls, silver blades carving the ice with elegance as he transitioned to leaps and spins. Complicated moves that Oscar’s untrained eye would never keep up with. It was a brilliant display of motion. Long graceful legs moving with perfect precision as the other skaters slowed to a stop. 

A multitude of eyes were on him, marvelling in high jumps and confident spins hovering in the air. But, amongst all of them, only one mattered. He had a point to prove, and Whitley found himself more thrilled with Oscar’s attention.

Those wide eyes and mouths hung in awe. It left him on the brink of breathless, pushing him to jump that bit higher. Spin more brilliantly. Smooth and precise and cocky, oozing with confidence as mothers pointed him out to their children. 

None of them mattered though. The upbeat jazz thrummed in his chest, warm and smooth as he landed with a smooth arc, shooting Oscar a breathless grin in pride. 

There were a few cheers as he slowed to a stop. Shouted compliments before motion returned. A few of the skaters attempted jumps of their own, laughing joyfully as they fumbled and fell, but Whitley paid none of them any mind.

He slid towards Oscar, a hand stretched out, and Oscar happily took it. Whitley led them into the flow of the crowd, still breathing heavily as their hands hung between them, connected.

“That was amazing!” Oscar shouted over the music, and Whitley could swear there was a fire burning deep in his chest now.

“Well, I suppose you’ll need a _lot_ of lessons before you’re even _close_ to me.”

Oscar closed the gap between them to playfully bump shoulders before Whitley returned it tenfold, bumping into him hard forcing Oscar off-balance.

He grasped Oscar’s arm with his free hand, supporting him as Oscar gave another warm laugh.

\---

All things considered, the trip to the ice had been a success.

Even with the music. Even with the people.

It hadn’t been… _awful_. Much to Whitley’s surprise, it had been far from _that_.

It had been what he needed to get his mind off what made him leave home to begin with. Even the smug smiles from the rainbow woman behind the desk had been worth it.

It hadn’t been a _normal_ trip, but it had been a successful one all the same. So much so that Whitley hadn’t exactly wanted to leave. It wasn’t until the rink was closing down and music stopped that they’d taken the hint. 

They’d parted ways, much to Whitley’s disappointment. All good things came to an end, he supposed. And eventually he had to end up back _here_.

The halls were quiet. _Empty_. Each step seemed to echo, vibrating from stark walls of white and blue. Cold and devoid of warmth. Somehow, defying all logic, the air felt colder here than it had on the ice. 

It was _late_ and Whitley would be better off slipping into his room for the night. He would have, and he would have preferred to do so, but good things had certainly ended.

Whitley came to a sudden stop in the hall outside his room, weary and hurt at the sight of his mother leaning against the wall beside his door. 

In her hand hung a half-empty bottle of vodka, opened and brought half-way up to her mouth before she caught sight of him.

She must have been waiting for him. After all, there was no other reason for her to be _here_ of all places. Quite frankly though, Whitley didn’t _want_ to deal with it. With _her_.

Whitley squared his jaw and moved faster, strolling past her to reach for his door.

“Whitley.”

Whitley’s hand froze, his fingertips braced on the cold doorknob as he squeezed his eyes shut. 

_”Mother.”_

He hoped that would be enough. He hoped she’d just _leave him alone_.

He gripped the doorknob and turned, only to flinch and freeze when cold fingers landed on his wrist, pleading for him to stop.

“Whitley, _please_.”

Taking a slow, deep breath, Whitley forced his eyes open to properly look at her.

The warmth in her cheeks and bloodshot eyes. The worry and concern that he had no right to offer him. 

“Can we talk? Please?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> How I was planning on writing Willow before and after actually meeting her in canon isn't actually that different. Actually, I don't think meeting her has changed anything about how I was planning on writing her at all.  
> Of course it'll probably influence it, but how I pictured her for this story and how she is in canon are very similar, so HEY! It all works out!
> 
> Thank you everyone who read this! And an extra thank you for any comments and/or kudos!!
> 
> If you'd like to catch me elsewhere, you can find me on [Tumblr](https://taziidcvil.tumblr.com/)  
> feel free to drop in and chat~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Willow fell silent and Whitley knew he should stop. He knew it was unsightly of him. Screaming and causing a fuss like a child. 
> 
> Schnees didn’t speak out of place. Schnees kept it bottled inside. They stayed perfectly in line. Silent and good and pleasant. They didn’t scream and cry and throw a tantrum. Because when they did, everything shattered around them. 
> 
> One misplaced emotion. One crack in the facade, and the dam would break and sweep them away. One slip and they all shattered like glass.
> 
> As Whitley pushed up onto his feet, towering and burning beneath the skin, he could feel the cracks web out with every satisfying word. Like broken porcelain. A knife tearing through a blank canvas. Once soiled, the picture perfect lie could never be whole again.
> 
> One mistake and tears poured down his too warm cheeks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOOHHHHH boy o boy o boy lets just,,, head straight into this one!!
> 
> The AMAZING and WONDERFUL and absolutely PERFECT [SCRUMPYLIKESTHINGS](https://scrumpylikesthings.tumblr.com/) made some [AMAZING ART](https://scrumpylikesthings.tumblr.com/post/190937031686/i-read-taziidcvils-fic-and-whitley-makes-three) inspired by this fic!! Please go show her all the love!!

“I’m filing for divorce.”

The news was delivered too blunt. Too cut and dry. A state of fact with no emotional investment.

It wasn’t as if Willow sounded like she didn’t care. She simply seemed too exhausted to put any further effort into it. It may have been news to Whitley, but to her there were months already poured into it. Years possibly. Her words rung hollow and Whitley found it fitting. The woman sat back in her garden chair with an opened bottle of vodka in her hand seemed nothing more than a husk.

Willow slouched back in her chair, her free arm hung at her side as the other hand slowly swirled the bottle. With each slosh of alcohol Whitley could feel his own stomach churn. Her hair was messed. Pulled back in a bun but stray hairs broke out in an unfitting nest. She looked like an utter wreck and Whitley found that fitting too.

In complete contrast of his mother, Whitley sat perfectly straight. His hands were folded in his lap, body stiff as his knees pressed tight together. He was tense and uncomfortable, sweat beaded on his brow. Whether it was because of the humidity or the sensation of being trapped in his mother’s garden, Whitley wasn’t sure. It certainly felt harder to breathe.

The pavement bricks below his feet were stark white in an ocean of greens. In the perfectly laid cracks sprouts of grass began to spring up, disrupting the purity. 

He was surprised. Not from the fact she’d considered it, _no_ , but the fact that she was going through with it. Useless Willow Schnee who wasted away in the shadow of Jacques Schnee. The woman who’d long lost any form of conviction long before Whitley even came to be.

The coward. The broken wife and mother who stood by and watched as their family tore each other apart. Who’d watched from the balcony with a wine glass in hand as her first daughter stormed from their front doors on a path to the military. Who’d swapped the glass for a bottle as her husband laid a hand on their second daughter’s face. Who crept down the halls like a shadow, barely an echo as Whitley’s father tightened the chains around his wrists.

Anger bubbled in the back of his throat, thick like tar as he struggled to swallow it back. His hands tightened into fists against his knees, small and shaken as his mother filled the silence.

“Your father found out.”

 _Your father_. Her husband, Whitley wanted to spit back. His tongue felt thick and dry, stuck to the roof of his mouth as he bit it.

“He wants to take everything.”

Didn’t he already have that? _Everything_. What did any of them have left to claim? Winter left with nothing but false pride. Weiss took nothing but the clothes on her back as some other family took her in. A family she spoke so highly of. One that apparently did it _right_.

What did Willow have that Jacques could still take? What could she ever hope to claim? She’d been all too happy with letting him have everything before. 

“If it’s just my word against his, we’ll never win.”

 _We?_ Now, when she needed help, suddenly it was _we_.

“If we ever want to live normally-”

Whitley barked a laugh that sounded dangerously close to a sob. Wet and bitter as his body began to quiver. 

‘ _This… isn’t normal._ ’

Wasn’t that what Weiss said? He could hear it so vividly. 

‘ _This isn’t how families work._ ’

“What would _you_ know?” Whitley laughed, his voice high and broken as his vision swam. The cruel bite of humour turned on a dime to blind rage, his belly tight as his throat burned with venom. “What do you know about _normal?_ You’re a Schnee after all!”

Willow fell silent and Whitley knew he should stop. He knew it was unsightly of him. Screaming and causing a fuss like a child. 

Schnees didn’t speak out of place. Schnees kept it bottled inside. They stayed perfectly in line. Silent and good and pleasant. They didn’t scream and cry and throw a tantrum. Because when they did, everything shattered around them. 

One misplaced emotion. One crack in the facade, and the dam would break and sweep them away. One slip and they all shattered like glass.

As Whitley pushed up onto his feet, towering and burning beneath the skin, he could feel the cracks web out with every satisfying word. Like broken porcelain. A knife tearing through a blank canvas. Once soiled, the picture perfect lie could never be whole again.

One mistake and tears poured down his too warm cheeks.

“You want _my help?!_ **My help!** ” Whitley cried out, a fist pressed to his chest as he struggled not to fall further apart. “What do you want, mother?! For me to be there for you? The way you never were for me? For anyone?!”

Willow didn’t respond. Didn’t try to defend herself or rebuttal, and that only fanned Whitley’s raging flames. 

“You want me there for _you!_ To save _you!_ But where were you when I wanted you to save me?! When I needed you!”

Willow’s eyes closed at the onslaught, brows drawn down as she accepted it. _Welcomed_ it. In the back of his mind Whitley could register the tears tracing down sunken cheeks but there was no capping it now. The dam was broken and Whitley couldn’t help but drown.

“What do you want to take from him, mother?! Is it- is it this garden?! This garden you spent my entire life tending! The money?! This mansion?! Because it sure as hell isn’t _me!_ ”

Willow took a shattered breath but Whitley forged forward, his free hand meeting the other at his chest as he gripped desperately at his own shirt, holding on tight as tears dripped from his chin.

“I’m turning eighteen in a _week!_ That scares you, doesn’t it?! I could leave! I could leave you alone with him, just like you did to me! You and Winter and _Weiss!_ All of you! You were here and yet you still **left me alone!** Does it scare you that I could leave just like them?! That I could find some- some _guy_ and leave you alone in this awful _garden!_ ”

Whitley kicked out, the bottom of his foot hitting the chair he’d been sitting on before. He stumbled back at the impact, but the chair toppled over the same, knocking against empty bottles as it crashed down.

It felt good and awful all the same. _Violence_. He never liked violence. It had always scared him. And yet everything in him screamed to strike out. To throw a table he could never dream to lift. To grind the flowers into the dirt and tear the perfectly placed lights from their fixtures. He wanted to shatter the windows and set the entire damn place ablaze.

He hated it here. He hated the love and care and warmth it grew in. The comfort and peace it brought to her that only chilled the divide between them.

‘ _The conditions are… a little too harsh for it there._ ’ Oscar’s voice rang heavy in his head, earning a strangled gasp from Whitley’s tight throat. 

If only he knew.

‘ _Please don’t step on it._ ’

Funny, because all Whitley felt was trod on.

“You-!” Whitley tried to scream but his voice failed him. A hitch in his throat silenced him with a heavy sob. He tried to push his words through. It hurt. His voice. His chest. His heart. What he did manage to force through was a pitiful sob; “you left me _alone_.”

Whitley’s energy plummeted. His body felt heavy and rooted as the fire died out. Rage succumbed to woe. Fat tears rolled down too warm cheeks dripping on perfect white brick.

Whitley felt messy and childish, shaking and unable to stop the sobbing. Deep breaths were only shattered and wet, betraying his unstable emotions. All too quickly Whitley felt small and pathetic, staring down an equally broken woman.

Willow’s head was tilted back, eyes squeezed shut as petite tears left their mark down pale cheeks. Her mouth was pinched tight, hands fisted around a bottle and clinging for dear life.

Unlike Whitley, she looked far more collected. Pretty and detached, even as she slowly blinked her eyes open, bloodshot and weary. 

Whitley was an ugly mess and Willow wore her turmoil with practised ease. He wanted to speak and keep silent all at once. Wanted to run but didn’t want to move. Conflictions braced down on him piling the tension as he waited.

Her mouth hitched open with a wavered breath, in deep before breathing out slow. 

“I know,” she admitted, her voice not quite as far-away as usual but not nearly as chaotic as his own. “ _I know_. I.. know it doesn’t mean much-”

‘ _It didn’t mean anything,_ ’ Whitley wanted to spit. Nothing she said could fix this. Could undo the break in Whitley’s hold. Even still, he ached to hear it all the same. Perhaps it was petty of him, but he wanted her to sob like him. To break and crumble in front of him in despair. 

Instead, only anger and sorrow clung to his heart as she levelled him with a look of understanding.

“-but I am sorry. I wish I could fix this-”

“You can’t,” Whitley breathed and Willow nodded, her eyes slipping to slowly and on the ground.

“I can’t,” she agreed. “I don’t think I’m even in the right place to try.”

Whitley eyed the bottle she held so dearly with disdain, the painful squeeze in his chest it earned forcing him to look away.

The silence that followed was heavy and thick, choking Whitley as he sniffled. 

“You know,” she spoke and Whitley squeezed his eyes shut. “I don’t think I’ve seen you cry since you were a baby.”

Whitley sobbed a laugh. Bitter and broken as the air wheezed from his lungs. Head tilted up, Whitley blinked back tears.

“Well, you haven’t exactly _seen me_ since I was a baby either.”

Try as she might to break the tension, Willow only strengthened it. She fell silent, head bowed and hands white as she strangled the neck of the bottle. She couldn’t refute him and they both knew it.

Pitiful broken thing she was. Perhaps she needed the help. Perhaps he could provide it. Right now… right now he couldn’t hear it. He needed time. Needed a breather. 

“I need to think about it,” Whitley offered with a step back. “I need- need a break.”

Willow nodded her head slow, silent as Whitley turned on his heel and walked out, ignoring the slosh of alcohol tipped back.

Whitley made a beeline for his room. He kicked off his shoes and toed off his socks before practically throwing himself in his bed. His head was hot and heavy, mind abuzz with anger and confusion. _Regret_.

He’d snapped. No better than Winter or Weiss. A child.

It took two hours of laying and struggling to sleep before he finally dragged himself out of bed to change into silk pyjamas. Another three hours of tossing to call Klein and ask for a hot chocolate to help him sleep.

Whitley asked the man to set the mug on his bedside table but his butler was ever the kind to go above and beyond. 

He’d never speak of it but the minutes he spent sobbing against Klein’s shoulder as Klein rubbed his back and murmured reassurance soothed him more than sweets ever could. He didn’t tell Klein what had happened. Mad as he was, Whitley didn’t want any of this to reach his father’s ears. For his sake and hers. Klein didn’t push either. An unspoken moment of openness and weakness before a solid few hours of sleep.

The once hot chocolate was stone cold when he woke up and Klein didn’t complain when he found it untouched in the morning.

Klein didn’t mention a word of the night before though he was admittedly softer than usual. He’d gone as far as to make Whitley’s favourite and while Whitley didn’t have the appetite to eat the crêpe entirely, he appreciated each bite he could manage. Most importantly he didn’t question it when Whitley asked the name of the florist they hired their gardener from.

\---

Whitley needed someone to speak to. Someone who wasn’t attached to the Schnee household. As pitiful as it may have been, Whitley quickly found that only left him with one option. An option he certainly didn’t mind, of course, but it certainly stood to show how few people he actually knew.

Hell, Oscar wasn’t even entirely removed from the household, but a gardener was certainly less attached to any of the butlers. Certainly less attached than his sisters. While he was sure they’d both have an opinion on the matter, he _didn’t_ want to hear it. After all they each held a fair share to his newfound animosity.

So imagine his surprise when entering a quaint little florist shop he came face-to-face with none other than _Weiss_. 

“Whitley?”

Whitley froze up as a bell chimed above his head, eyes wide as he stared at his sister. It took him a second longer to notice Oscar standing beside her, and yet another second to realise he’d caught them speaking together.

He really shouldn’t have been so surprised really. After all, Oscar _did_ work here. It was very clear he was working too. Whitley’s gaze dipped as he noted the dark green apron dusted in dirt. His attention flashed back to Oscar’s surprised face, then to the arrangement of flowers between them. Whitley didn’t need an extensive knowledge of flowers to recognise a bunch of white roses.

“Weiss?” Whitley fumbled back as he let the door slip shut behind him. “What are you.. doing here?”

Whitley turned his attention slowly back to his sister and Weiss’ face dropped with a roll of her eyes.

“No offence, _Whitley_ , but I think it should be _pretty obvious_.”

“Weiss,” Oscar cut in, caught between exasperated and holding back a laugh. “ _Please_ don’t fight here.”

“ _Weiss_ ,” Whitley parroted, caught off-guard by the familiarity. “Wait, do you… know each other?”

“Yes, believe it or not, I do actually have _friends_ ,” Weiss bit back, ignoring the stressed ‘ _Weiss_ ’ Oscar shot her again.

“Did you know she was my sister?” Whitley demanded, gaping at the florist who looked equally ashamed _and_ unsure just what he was supposed to be ashamed of.

“Well I _was_ the one who recommended he pick up work at the Schnee manor,” Weiss cut in, arms folded and visibly agitated while Oscar’s eyes flicked away.

“And she’s.. kind of the reason I’m here in the first place.”

Whitley blinked twice, mouth hitched open as his brows slowly creased in. He glanced from Weiss to Oscar to the floor then back again, processing as the mental cogs turned.

“You said you were here for a wedding.”

“Ooh boy,” Oscar whispered as Weiss straightened up beside him, arms falling as she gaped at her brother.

“Unbelievable!”

“ _What?!_ ” Whitley snapped back, on the spot and doe-eyed as he flinched away. 

“It’s no wonder you haven’t replied! You didn’t even read my letter, did you?”

“Your what?” The change in topic gave Whitley pause. He struggled to catch up, scrutinising her as he vaguely recalled the letter she’d given him. A letter he’d long forgotten about in disinterest. “What of it?”

“It was a _wedding invitation_ , you oaf!”

Of all the things he predicted her to say, that one certainly hit him from left field.

A wedding invitation? A wedding.. Weiss was getting married. Weiss. _Marriage?_

“You’ve known this woman for, what, a month?” Whitley sputtered.

“Whitley, we’ve been dating for five years,” Weiss drawled back, unimpressed as she turned back to Oscar. “I have to get to some measurements but the white roses are _lovely_. Thank you for taking care of it.”

“Of course,” Oscar provided, but his voice was still tense as his focus flashed between her and the newcomer.

Weiss waved him off and Whitley stepped away from the door as she approached. He was still reeling from the new development. Between his parents' theoretical divorce and Weiss’ apparent oncoming marriage, Whitley’s entire world was quickly twisting and changing far too fast to grasp.

He froze up when Weiss stopped in front of him rather than passing by, and Whitley reluctantly met her eye. Irritated as she may have been, Whitley was instead met with something softer. Something almost _warm_ as she carefully chose her words.

“It really would mean the world to me if you came but.. I understand if you don’t. Just think about it. Please?” Weiss’ fingers twitched and to school them she quickly latched onto the strap of her shoulder bag. “Ruby and I would love to see you there. Take care, Whitley.”

She offered a tight smile, one which Whitley didn’t bother to return, and swiftly left. 

Trust Weiss to add further confusion to his already chaotic thoughts. Just this morning his biggest stress was the oncoming war between his mother and father, and a mother who’d never been there for him asking him to take her side. As if their father needed anymore reason to be furious.

Whitley stood staring for a moment, lost and struggling to grasp all the new information around him. He hadn’t even registered Oscar staring nervously at him, let alone the man who crept up behind him.

“Young man?”

Whitley jolted, heart lodged in his throat as he spun to face the newcomer, hand on chest. 

The stranger was dressed much like Oscar only far _neater_. There wasn’t a speck of dirt on his ironed apron and unlike Oscar’s skewed collar this man’s was perfectly folded over the strings. His hair was messy but in a perfectly stylised way, framing an aged and amused face with a pair of green tinted glasses balanced on the jump of his nose. His glasses were the only thing out of perfect order, the fame bent and crumpled in yet still held in place. 

It took Whitley a beat longer to notice the cane the man was leaning against, braced forward as he seemed to regard Whitley proper.

“Ahh, another Schnee has stumbled into my humble garden. Welcome.”

Whitley wasn’t quite sure whether it was the mention of gardens or the use of that name that made him flinch away. Something about it only made his stomach heavy and he was grateful when Oscar piped up for him.

“It’s- ah- _Whitley_ ,” Oscar introduced and Whitley instinctively took a step back towards him.

His name seemed to have some importance to the man. Thoughtful eyes creased with consideration and Whitley could feel himself being dissected under his strange gaze. With a hum the stranger pulled away, apparently content with what he found.

“Oscar,” the man started, addressing the employee with kindness. “You were about to head out for lunch, weren’t you?”

“I was?” Oscar questioned back, head cocked to the side in clear confusion. 

The man rested one hand on-top the other, propped on the head of his cane as he lent forward, amused and waiting for Oscar to figure it out. Whitley couldn’t be frustrated with the delay in thought. Not when Oscar’s eyes practically lit up as something clicked, face flushed with sudden embarrassment. 

“Right, yes, of course!” Oscar failed to save himself as he struggled to pull his apron free. 

The strings flicked up the hair at the back of his head and Whitley’s fingers twitched with the automatic need to fix it. Socially aware of unwanted implications, Whitley scowled as he stopped himself. 

“I- um- we won’t be long!” Oscar promised, though the man seemed far from concerned as he stepped away from the door and offered a simple wave.

Neither one voiced the fact that it was still morning hours. Far too early for an alleged ‘lunch’. If it meant he would have Oscar to himself for a little while he’d play ignorant. Even so-

“Would you _please_ fix your hair?”

Oscar paused in the midst of pulling the store door open to hesitantly reach a hand towards his locks.

“What’s wrong with my hair?”

\---

“I actually haven’t had tea since getting here.”

“Atlas is a busy city with a bustling nightlife. Atlesians tend to get less sleep so multiple businesses took advantage of our lifestyle by specialising in various coffee recipes, which is why you’ll find a coffee store on every street. I believe it’s a common joke to the rest of the world to imply Atlas is fuelled on caffeine.”

“Yet you got a hot chocolate?”

Whitley frowned down at the paper cup in his hands and the unfortunate plastic cap that blocked most of its heavenly scent.

“I prefer sweets.”

They’d settled with the first coffee shop they’d found which predictably had been on the same block as the florist. They never had to look hard. 

Any other day Whitley would have demanded they went out of their way to find something a little more _classy_. Neither had the time nor did Whitley have the energy. He’d much rather sit inside and drink from something less… _disposable_ , but what he had to say wasn’t exactly public appropriate. 

If information on his home life got to the public through him he’d be disowned.

So Oscar had invited him into a private little garden at the back of the florist he apparently tended to.

It was _much_ smaller than his mothers. Far from grand. The grounds were coated in snow but, despite that, springs of green broke through the ice. Durable and stark against its white bedding. Each leaf had a webbing of frost patterned over it, weighing them down just barely. No flowers broke through the chill but, standing as tall as they were in the dead of winter, Whitley could only imagine that they were sure to come.

Their ‘seats’ were two stumps. Far from fine dining but Whitley took what he could get, silently grateful for the solitude as he watched two birds bathe in a provided stone birdbath. 

Whitley wondered if Oscar refilled it often to keep the water from freezing over.

He wondered why anyone would bother, especially when the birds only continued to make a mess of the kindness they were offered.

“Oz only stocks chocolate in our kitchen,” Oscar explained as his thumbs idly rubbed along the paper surface of his cup. They were a welcomed distraction from the ungrateful birds. “I guess I’ve kind of grown to like it too. Still, it’s nice to go back to the basics.”

“I’m surprised they even sold tea to be honest,” Whitley admitted as he pressed the lip of the lid to his lips to check the temperature.

“There wasn’t… _that_ many choices. We usually brewed our own mixtures on the farm.”

“Do you miss it?” Whitley wasn’t even sure why he cared. Perhaps it was simply a nice thought.

Oscar having a home that he enjoyed returning to. What a concept.

“I do,” Oscar started and Whitley’s eyes travelled up to focus on his face instead. “And I don’t, if that makes sense?”

“Absolutely not,” Whitley shut down, and he took a slow sip of his chocolate drink as Oscar snorted a laugh.

“I don’t want to go back, not yet at least. I love the farm but it’s nice to break free for awhile. I can’t spend the rest of my life in one place.”

Whitley offered a hum to Oscar’s words, brow creased as his attention returned to his drink.

He couldn’t exactly relate and it didn’t take him long to understand why. It was very rare for him to set foot outside of the Schnee manor, let alone Atlas. There were the select few meetings abroad he’d been dragged along to, but outside of political get-togethers Whitley was often secluded in what hotel his father had set them in. Whitley’s experience with the world was seen from the windows of private jets. 

He wasn’t sure how he’d take removing himself from the manor. Wasn’t even entirely sure he’d survive it. It was a frightening thought. One that was far too real due to recent developments. 

If Whitley backed the wrong horse he could very much end up homeless.

If he helped his mother only to fail, father would surely disown him and leave him to suffer without lien to his name.

If he sided with his father and his mother won, Whitley didn’t trust the woman to forgive him and let him in.

To keep a roof over his head he needed to pick the winning side, and yet neither option felt like a true ‘win’. No matter which side the proverbial coin landed on, everything changed.

Change truly was the single most terrifying idea. It was unavoidable and Whitley’s days of normality were numbered. Perhaps they were long over.

Whitley’s thumb pushed into the side of the paper cup and Whitley watched the lip pop off one side, steam instantly curling in the frigid air.

Oscar was slow in his actions but Whitley couldn’t help but jump, not noticing the hand reaching for him until it landed on his forearm. Whitley flinched, eyes wide as he stared at the hesitant hand rested reassuringly on him.

“Is something wrong?” And _oh_ wasn’t **that** an understatement? “You didn’t come all the way out here to ask me about the farm.”

“No.. I didn’t,” Whitley agreed, and he inwardly sulked as Oscar respectfully retreated his kind touch. “My mother… wants to file for divorce.”

Oscar offered a sharp ‘ _oh_ ’, uncertain as he carefully cupped his hands in his lap. When he didn’t comment beyond that Whitley took it as a go-ahead to keep speaking.

“She was trying to ask me for my help,” Whitley provided before he sniffed back, frustrated with his body’s natural emotional reaction. He did _not_ need to start sobbing like a child once again. “I wouldn’t let her.”

Oscar was careful as he spoke, uncertain and soft in what was undoubtedly suppose to keep Whitley from getting defensive. Curious rather than accusing, but Whitley couldn’t help the way his body bristled.

“Why not?”

Whitley barked a laugh, humourless and bitter as he shook his head. 

“My family is… very complex, Oscar.”

“Yeah, I… get that.”

“Do you?” Whitley accused, hands tight around his cup as he levelled Oscar with a stare. He wanted to be cold. Wanted to harness the bitter venom of a trained Schnee, but Whitley only lamented as his voice warbled with barely contained emotion. “Do you understand?”

Oscar slouched on his stump, downcast and soft as he wrung his hands together.

“I do,” he started before brilliant eyes caught Whitley’s own. “And I don’t… if that makes sense?”

Oscar cocked his lips into a wobbled smile, lopsided and sheepish in his poorly crafted joke, and Whitley breathed a sharp laugh. One far more real than the last.

Whitley sniffed back and reached up to wipe away a tear, an unwanted smile broken through the cracks in his defences. 

“ _Absolutely not_ ,” Whitley joked back with a shake of his head. 

For a moment his gaze went skyward, head tilted back as he tried to force back the tears and collect himself. A few deep breaths that Oscar respected in silence, waiting patiently for Whitley to regain himself and meet his gaze once more.

“My mother.. was never there,” Whitley started, hands wrung tight around his cooling drink. “My sisters left. Mother locked herself in her garden. Father was.. the only one who was there.”

Oscar’s face hardened at the mention of Jacques but he otherwise remained passive, listening and allowing Whitley to continue.

“Father is not perfect,” though that was something Whitley would never admit to the man himself. “But at the very least he was forever present in my life. Even if he’s difficult.. surely that counts for something?”

Oscar opened his mouth though quickly silenced his thoughts. Whitley couldn’t imagine he had anything positive to say. The general public’s opinion on the man wasn’t exactly shining. What’s more, Oscar worked for his mother. Surely if he were to pick a side it would be _obvious_. Still, Whitley appriciated the fact Oscar didn’t jump at the chance to sway his opinion one way or the other. It encouraged him enough to push on and work up his courage as his attention turned to his lap.

“My family.. is not like a ‘normal’ family. I know that. And sometimes.. I don’t agree with my father’s choices. Sometimes I can empathise with Weiss and Winter, though I still disapprove of their actions.”

One of Whitley’s hands slipped from the cup in favour of grabbing his opposite arm in a half psuedo-hug, and Whitley noted the way Oscar’s hand flinched and stretched out.

“I don’t know what a family means to everyone else. I don’t know what _normal_ is. If it’s better or worse. But this is my family, even if it’s.. not all there. I have tried so hard to keep it held together and now.. mother wants me to help pull it apart.”

Voice trembled with fear, Whitley slowly caught Oscar’s eye again, uncertain and pleading. 

“I don’t know what to do.”

Oscar visibly swallowed, his once bright eyes now forlorn. When he spoke Whitley clung to each word, praying for an answer that would somehow make this easier than it had to be.

“I never-” Oscar’s voice choked to a sudden stop, and Whitley let himself go in favour of reaching out to touch Oscar’s arm. Without an ounce of hesitation, Oscar’s hand rested on top of his, warming him and welcoming the touch. “I didn’t really… get to know my parents. They died… when I was little.”

Oscar’s brows pinched in pain and Whitley’s heart dropped in turn.

“I always had my aunt. I don’t really know what a ‘normal’ family is either. I don’t really think there’s really such a thing. It’s just… the people who love you, I think?”

Oscar’s hand squeezed around his as Whitley’s shoulders dropped, cold and hollow as the words sunk in.

“I’m sorry neither of us really had our parents in our lives,” Oscar continued. “But I don’t think it’s too late to figure out what a family is to you.”

 _A family_. In such a short time, Whitley wasn’t sure he’d have much of one left to try and piece the picture together.

Sullen, Whitley’s hand dropped back to his lap, loosely wrapped around his now cold drink as Oscar watched him.

He’d wanted a definite answer, even if it was bias. He wanted Oscar to tell him what to do. To take the choice away from him.

It was terrifying making choices. There was comfort in the control. Comfort in the shackles Jacques had put in place. It was better to be silent and obediant. When someone else made the choices there was none of this awful pressure. None of this fear of making the wrong choice.

And now Whitley was toeing a dangerous line with no one to hold up his strings. No security to keep him from tumbling over the edge, just like his wayward sister. A third in the pit of disaster.

“It started with Winter,” Whitley spoke quietly, voice shaken as fear gripped his chest.

Oscar was quiet for a beat, waiting for Whitley to continue. When Whitley didn’t he carefully prompted; “started what?”

“She-” Whitley’s voice caught in fear, tight and harsh as he struggled to overcome the mental stop. “She came out. That’s where the family began to fall apart.”

“Because she came out?”

Whitley squeezed his eyes shut and nodded, petrified as he shivered from the cold.

“Then- then it was Weiss. She came out and father struck her.”

The silence was heavy as he heard Oscar shuffle uncomfortably beside him. When he spoke Whitley could hear the underlining anger in the base of his voice.

“Weiss told me.”

Whitley would be surprised that his sister would open up about something like that, but his sister had long changed from the girl he grew up with. She was unpredictable and that too was terrifying, because Whitley apparently was doomed to forever follow the paths his sisters set out on.

“I’m scared,” Whitley admitted, tiny and trembling as tears pricked from the corners of his eyes.

“Of what?”

It was the fear in Oscar’s own voice that made Whitley open his eyes once more. The heartbreaking worry and concern. Whitley swallowed the lump in his throat back as he timidly glanced at the other.

The brilliant, ever warm boy. Too kind and open for a Schnee like him. Like a moth, Whitley was drawn to his magnificent light. And yet it never scorched him. All he ever found was comfort and care. Despite himself, Whitley was scared to find he trusted him more than any other.

 _How pitiful_ , he thought. And how incredibly weak of him to let his little secret warp his sense of trust.

“That he’ll find out about me too.”

It took a moment for the implication to sink in. For Oscar’s frown of worry and confusion to open with understanding, followed quickly with genuine concern.

“Oh.”

_Oh._

Whitley breathed a sad laugh at the simple exclamation.

Twice now. Twice he’d made the same mistake. Once in anger. Once in trust.

Whitley sobbed a bitter laugh as Oscar scrambled from his stump to wrap his arms around Whitley from his side and let him lean against his chest, chin propped against Whitley’s hair.

“What am I suppose to do?” Whitley cried as Oscar rubbed a warm hand up his arm, the two cold drinks forgotten and spilt on the snow.

“I can’t tell you what to do,” Oscar claimed and Whitley crumpled in his arms, unsatisfied with the answer. “But I know you’ll do the right thing.”

Whitley wasn’t so sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ahaaahaha i hurt myself with this one
> 
> I hope you're all taking care of yourself during these hard times!! I hope you're all okay and are all safe. Things are bad at the moment, but we'll make it through this. 
> 
> Thank you everyone who read this! And an extra thank you for any comments and/or kudos!!
> 
> If you'd like to catch me elsewhere, you can find me on: [Tumblr](https://taziidcvil.tumblr.com/)


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